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GENEVlfcVE; 

OR, 

The Children of Port Royal. 


A STORY OF OLD FRANCE. 


By the Author of ‘*The Spanish Brothers.” 


'^Utrva. - 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
17 TO 27 Vandkwater Street. 



GENEVIEVE 


CHAPTER 1. 

DREAMS AND PURPOSES. 

The seventeenth century had completed rather more than 
half its stormy, checkered course. The time was early June; 
the sun was sinking to rest over the woods and orchards and 
green corn fields of northern Prance, and gilding with its part- 
ing smile the quiet waters of the Seine. It seemed to linger 
lovingly upon one spot more than usually beautiful, not far 
from the ancient town of Vernon. There, on the bosom of 
the clear water, which was flushed with rosy light, slept a little 
island, rich with emerald grass and the bright pink blossoms 
of some pretty wild flowers. Close beside it, a tiny boat 
floated lazily down the river, its pair of occupants being the 
only living creatures in sight. They were children, or scarcely 
more — a gallant, sunburned boy of about fifteen, and a girl 
some three years younger, but already giving promise of re- 
markable beauty. She had thrown off the shady hat that 
covered her luxuriant golden hair, and was leaning over the 
side of the boat, drawing her slender fingers through the 
water, while she looked up at her companion half shyly, half 
archly, her deep violet eyes dimmed all the while with the dew 
of gathering tears. 

“ You may say what you please, Edouard,^^ she said (using 
the familiar “ thou,^’ which loses its pleasantness in a foreign 
tongue) — “ you may say what you please, but I know the 
truth. You are not sorry to go, you are glad. 

“ Glad and sorry, both together,^’’ the boy answered, frank- 
ly. ‘‘I am glad when I think of Paris and all its wonders; 
still more glad when I think that I am going to be a soldier — 
as my father was, and his father, and his father’s father, and 
all our race! But I am sorry — and the sorrow is greater than 
the gladness — when I think of leaving home, and you, Gene- 
vieve, and the dear father and mother. There, do not let us 
talk of it. ” 


6 


GENEVIEVE. 


“I do not wish to talk of it, I am sure, for my part; I— 
Here Genevieve broke off suddenly, and the pout with which 
the little speech began 6nded almost in a sob. 

“ 1 want to ask you, little sister, to take care — great care,-'^ 
the very greatest care you can — of my poor little Jeannette. I 
can not , bring her with me to Paris; I am to have horses of 
my own there, and grooms, and lackeys, and a page too*, 
who will attend me when I ride; so monsieur my uncle says,^’ 
Edouard continued, not without a slight air of importance. 

“ When did you hear all that?’^ asked Genevieve. • 

“ Hear it? Why, of course. Monsieur d’Houditot has been 
telling me these things ever since he came. It was very good 
of my uncle to send his first gentleman to bring me to Paris, 
but I think he need not have taken so much trouble. I could 
have traveled so far very well by myself. However, I suppose 
that would not have been thought proper. But about Jean- 
nette, you will be sure to remember, Genevieve, she is not to 
be ill-used, or worked hard, but to be turned out to grass as 
soon as she gets unfit for you to ride her, and alreaidy she is 
old.^^ 

‘‘Yes, 1 will remember; even were 1 to forget, which I will 
not do, my father would take care of her. He never allows 
any creature to be hurt or treated badly. And Tireur, what 
of him, Edouard ?^^ 

“ Oh, I shall take Tireur with me. A dog is never in the 
way. Now, I suppose we ought to pull toward home. It is 
growing dark. Genevieve, there is one thing more I want you 
to keep and take care of. ” 

“You may trust me, I shall keep it for you quite safely. 
What is it, Edouard?’^ 

“ Something which you are not to keep for 7716, but for 
yourself. You will find it, when I am gone, in the private 
drawer of the little ebony cabinet in my room. 1 will give 
you the key before I go.^^ 

“ But Edouard! Oh, Edouard the little girl said, flush- 
ing. “ I saw you this morning, while I was helping you to 
pack, put into that very drawer and lock up there — your 
father’s watch.’’ 

“ How quick your eyes are! There is no cheating you, 
Genevieve. I did not wish you to know about it until after I 
was gone; but it makes no difference. The watch is for yo 7 i. 

It is the only thing worth giving you that 1 have of my very 
own. The only thing, almost, that is not your father’s or your 
mother’s gift to me. So you must take it as a souve7iir, or I 
shall be vexed, and ride away to-morrow sad in heart. ” 


GENEVIEVE. 


7 


“ 1 know mother will not let me take it; you remember 
how grieved she was when you gave her that beautiful ring 
with the ruby in it, on the day of her fete, although she did 
not know till afterward that you sold your own gold chain to 
buy it for her. Besides, Edouard, you ought not to give that 
watch away to me or to any one, because it was your father^s. 
I think you have nothing else left now that belonged to him. 

“ Yes, I have one thing more precious than the watch. 
And I think our mother will let me have my will, now that 1 
am going away.^^ 

“I don't “know — oh, Edouard, I wish— I wish you would 
stay with us!^^ 

“ Dear little sister, it does not depend on me. Were I to 
ask it, even on my knees, your father would not allow me to 
stay. He says it is my duty to go to my uncle, now that he 
claims me. 

“ How fond our father is of that word ‘ duty!^ 

“Well he may! It is a grand word, Genevieve. 1 hope to 
hold it dear all my life, and dearer than my life. The boy 
spoke earnestly, while, resting on his oars for a moment, he 
leaned back in the little boat, and looked up to the quickly 
fading sky, where one or two faint stars had already appeared. 

“Yes,’' returned Genevieve, thoughtfully, “but our 
mother says it is not enough to do our duty in the world, 
we must also love and serve the good God, and ‘ make 
our salvation;’ you understand? Our mother is very sorry for 
you, Edouard. ” 

Edouard did not answer; a strange fancy, which he could 
not have put into words, was flitting vaguely through his 
mind. Perhaps the light of duty — devoir, “ honor,” as an 
English boy of similar character and- training would have 
phrased it — was like the vanishing daylight, and that of 
religion like the far faint stars, dim and distant, but ever- 
lasting. But then, what religion? The thought faded 
quickly, his mind being still too immature to fix and pursue 
it. He resumed his pleasant labor, and soon brought his 
little craft to the foot of a broad and lofty flight of steps, 
having massive stone balustrades adorned with elaborate carv- 
ing, and at the summit a terraced garden, glowing with 
brightly tinted flowers. 

“Ah,” said Genevieve, quickly, “there is the mother 
watching for us. We must be very late.” 

On the topmost step, looking down somewhat anxiously, 
stood a tall and slender lady, dressed in a robe of dark-colored 


8 


GENEVIEVE. 


brocade, her high white cap, with its costly lace, covered 
lightly with a crimson scarf. She did not speak, but beck- 
oned to the children to come quickly, which they did, Edouard 
helping Genevieve out of the boat, and then fastening it with 
a rope to a stake fixed for the purpose in the ground near the 
steps. 

“ My children, you are late,^^ said a mild voice, with a 
slight accent of reproach in it, as they drew near. “ Supper 
waits, and that is not seemly when there is a guest who must 
wait also.^' 

“But, mother, why should supper wait for usf^ asked 
Genevieve, rather surprised. 

“ For thee, child?' Who would think of it? But our 
Edouard, being the nephew of Monsieur le Due de Graffont — 
what do your suppose the duke^s gentleman would think of 
us if we sat down to table without him?^’ 

Much .impressed by this view of the case, and by the new 
aspect in which it presented her playmate to her mind, Gene- 
vieve followed her mother into the house — a quaint,. party- 
colored chateau, built of brick, but faced with stone and 
ornamented with plaster, in the style brought into fashion by 
Cardinal Eichelieu. It was not imposing, and had few pre- 
tensions to state or splendor, looking merely a fit residence for 
a man of good means, but of habits neither luxurious nor 
ostentatious. 

More luxurious, and it must be also said, more ostentatious 
than usual, was the evening meal, spread in the large hall; for 
the duke’s first gentleman was a person of distinction, even in 
the eyes of the very able advocate a^lld counselor who had. the 
honor of entertaining him. But it was over at length, and 
the guest conducted with due ceremor^ to the state bedroom 
which had been prepared, for him. ' Half an hour later, 
Edouard de Sercourt stood for the last time alone in the 
presence of the man who had been to him as a father. 

M. Etienne Monteres sat in his arm-chair, carelessly attired 
in an embroidered dressing-gown and slippers. He had even 
discarded the cumbrous peruke, then an indispensable part of 
the dress of a man in his position; but this was not to be re- 
gretted, as his own gray hair formed- a far more becoming 
adornment for his fine, well-developed, intellectual head. His 
features were plain and even rugged, but their expression had 
always been intelligent and sensible, and was now refined by 
sickness and sutfering. M. Monteres had long been an in- 
valid; which was one reason, though not the only one, for his 


GENEVIEVE. 


9 


withdrawal from the busy life of law courts and provincial 
parliaments to the comparative seclusion of his present abode. 

In striking contrast to his were the lithe, boyish figure and 
sunburned face of the stripling who stood before him — a face 
of no ordinary type, decidedly handsome, yet better described 
by the term noble, since it was too long for regular beauty; 
though the features were well marked, the nose aquiline, and 
the large eyes a dark blue, full of fire and softness. 

“ There is no need,^^ M. Monteres was saying, in grave, 
measured tones — “ there is no need, at this eleventh hour, for 
me to repeat the counsels I have given you already. That an 
honest, pure, and righteous life may be lived in any circum- 
stances, however full of temptation, and by any man who has 
vowed to God and to his own conscience so to live, 1 have not 
now to tell you. I believe, Edouard de Sercourt, that such a 
life will be thine. 

“ I hope so,^’ said the boy, humbly; and perhaps his 
modest, diffident tone augured better things for the future 
than the loudest protestations would have done. 

“ The only fault of character against which I have to give 
you any special warning,^^ M. Monteres resumed, is the too 
great impetuosity — or perhaps 1 ought to call it, obstinacy — 
which leads you to pursue any object upon which your mind 
is set, without regard, not only to fortuitous obstacles, but to 
the reasonable limitations which time, place, and circumstance 
impose upon human endeavor. To carry out what you have 
determined is generally right and wisd^ to do it at a stretch, 
without pause or delay, or due attention to other claims, is 
often wrong and inconvenient. Study, I advise you, my son, 
the good old Latin proverb Festina lente.^' But there is an- 
other and more important subject upon which I have to speak 
to you. I have not now to remind you that, in compliance 
with the earnest entreaties of your father on his death-bed, 
and to fulfill my own word of honor pledged to him in those 
solemn circumstances, I have brought you up a Protestant. 

“ Yes, 1 am a Protestant,'’^ Edouard answered, in a matter- 
of-fact way, evidently without regret, but also without en- 
thusiasm. 

“ It is no secret from you, my son, that my wife, your 
adopted mother, has not seen with me in this matter. She 
has not failed to urge upon me the welfare of your soul; and 
the arguments of priests and casuists (though she is no casuist) 
to prove there is less sin in breaking than in keeping a promise 


Hasten slowly. 


10 


GENEVIEm 


which in itself was a sin. With such questions of casuistry^ 
however, 1 have had, and I have, nothing to do. I only know 
that to a man of honor his pledged word is a sacred thing, and 
the rather when he to whom it is pledged can no longer claim, 
or compel, its redemption. Your father was the best friend I 
ever had: he trusted me in life; he trusted me in death; and 
I shall not betray his trust merely because his ashes are cold 
in the grave, and can never rise to reproach me. Therefore, 
though I could not teach you what 1 myself knew not, I have 
always held you back carefully from participation in any rite 
of the Church, and 1 have sent you as often as I could ^ to 
Vernon, to attend the Assemblies, and to receive instruction 
from the pastor of your own faith. 

Edouard^s reply was somewhat singular. I hold my own 
faith dear,^^ he said, because it was my father’s; but 1 can 
not think ill of the religion to which you and our mother 
belong.” 

“ Where you are going, my son, there will be many anxious 
to persuade you to think well enough of it to make it your 
own. They will press you to attend functions, and to hear 
great preachers; they will use the attractions of music and art, 
perhaps also the kind words of great men, and the sniiles of 
fair ladies.” 

“Ah! as for that,” said Edouard, looking up with more 
animation than he had shown before, “ 1 shall never think 
any one half so fair as G^enevieve.” 

“We are talking seriously, my son, and I request your 
earnest attention,” returned the counselor, with an air of re- 
proof. “ I only wish to say that for you the path of conver- 
sion will be strewn with flowers. But beware, for flowers 
sometimes hide an abyss. Do nothing rashly. Indeed, I may 
add, do nothing at all, until you come to man’s estate. Say 
to those who would engage you in controversy that until you 
are old enough to examine these things for yourself, you are 
determined to profess the faith of your father. Go openly to 
Oharenton* when the arrangements of your uncle’s household 
permit of it. Remember that the laws of your country give 
you a right to your religion, and that no man is permitted to 
insult or injure you on account of it. The door to every 
preferment, military or civil, stands as open to you as to the 

* The place at the prescribed distance outside of Paris where the 
Protestants were allowed to hold their worship, and where they had a 
very large and celebrated “ Temple.” 


GENEVIEVE. 


11 

best Catholic in France. Understand your rights, use them, 
but, I need not add, do not abuse them.^^ 

“ How could I abuse them, my father?^^ 

It would, I think, be an abuse of them, if, when arrived 
at full age, you were to refuse to examine the differences be- 
tween the two religions, and to embrace that which seems to 
you the best. If it were possible (which it is not) that I 
should be alive ten years hence, I should be glad enough then 
to hear of your conversion — tlierii not now. Mark why not.' 
Once you forsake your own religion, there is no return. The 
Huguenot so born enjoys the protection of the law: with the 
relapsed Huguenot, or, so to speak, the apostate Catholic, it 
is far otherwise. You would make a veritable shipwreck of 
your life if, lightly converted in your boyhood, you saw reason 
in maturer years to repent your decision. Not that even then 
I could advise you to a baseness. A man must walk by the 
light of his conscience, though he walk into an open grave. 
But I would not have your pathway made more perilous than 
need be. 

I will remember all you say, my father, Edouard an- 
swered. “ But, if I know myself, there is no danger, no pos- 
sibility even, of my changing my faith. 

“ Enough, my son. I have now but one word more to add, 
and that word concerns myself rather than you. 

He paused so long before he spoke the word that Edouard 
looked at him in surprise, even in some anxiety. At length 
the pause was broken. 

“ I do not think we shall meet again on this side the grave, 
said M. Monteres, slowly. 

My father — my dear father, the boy began, impetuously. 

M. Monteres held up his hand with a gesture which, as well 
as the look that accompanied it, bespoke silence and attention. 

‘ ‘ My adopted son, who leaves me to-morrow, has the right 
to hear from my lips what otherwise I would not have uttered. 
Edouard, I am stricken with a mortal disease. It will not be 
long — years it can not be — months it may not be — until I 
leave my wife a widow and my child an orphan. Moreover, I 
have been what the world calls an unsuccessful man; already 
I have lost much of what once was mine, and should the law- 
suit terminate unfavorably, I shall lose all. And, those I leave 
behind must be left destitute in a cold, unfriendly world. 
You will not forget them, Edouard?^ ^ 

But the boy was weeping silently, and could not answer. 

His guardian resumed gently: “ I know what thy heart 
says, my child, but I wish to hear it from thy lips. 


12 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ Surely it is not so bad as that, my father; it can nci be,^^ 
faltered Edouard. “ But should the need arise, you may trust 
me, father. In truth,^^ he said, gathering courage as he went 
on, and moved to unwonted confidence by the confidence 
which had been reposed in him, “ in truth, this is what I in- 
tend to do. I hope, first, that my uncle, the Due de GraSont, 
will get me a commission in the army, so that I may fight for 
the king, and show myself not unworthy of my father’s name. 
Then, when I am a man, I will come back again here, and ask 
for the hand of Genevieve.” 

His eyes, which sparkled through their tears, his flushed 
cheek, his broken and faltering words, showed at once the 
genuineness of his emotion, and the struggle it cost him to 
drag into the light that which lay hidden in the depths of his 
boyish heart. 

But M. Monteres dismissed it all with a half-tolerant, half- 
contemptuous, “ There — there! Do not talk idly, my dear 
boy. Your future will be very different from what you think 
now. It will, in any case, be a distinguished, and it may even 
prove to be a very brilliant one, especially if Monsieur le*Duc 
does not reconcile himself to his son — an eventuality upon 
which, however, you must carefully abstain from calculating; 
you must not even desire it; on the contrary, should it ever 
lie in your power to do so, you must further such a recon- . 
ciliation with all your influence. But however this 'm^ybe, 
you will still be Monsieur de Sercourt, the nephew and ward 
of Monsieur le Due de Graffont. It is quite possible that 
Monsieur le Duo already has in his thoughts a suitable match 
for you; but even if not, this at least is certain, you will not 
be six months in Paris until you perfectly comprehend aind 
entirely recognize the eternal barrier that divides the daughter 
of Monsieur I’Avocat from the nephew of Monsieur le Due. 
No, my son, no protestations, if you please. I ask no roman- 
tic vows, no wild boyish promises; I ask only for that which 
you can give, and give with justice and propriety. I ask you 
to remember with kindness, to honor with your protection, 
and with such friendship as is possible between persons of 
different degree, the widow and the orphan of the man who 
loved you so well for your father’s sake. ” 

“ Who has been a father to me nearly all my life, and whom 
I love as truly as son ever loved a father,” said Edouard, now 
fairly sobbing. 

“It is enough, more than enough,” said M. Monteres. 
“Now, my boy, leave me. Thy mother has also farewell 
words for thee, I think. ” ' 


GEJ^EVIEVE. 13 

Ti’ue to the habits of that formal and ceremonious age, 
Edouard knelt at the feet of his adopted father, and asked for 
his blessing. M. Monteres raiseliv him, embraced him tenderly, 
kissed him on both cheeks, and’ then, without another word, 
pointed to the door. The interview was over. 

The next morning Edouard de\;Sercourt left the house of 
his foster-father, never to return. ) 


CHAPTER l)[. 

AFTER THREE Ye'^^RS. 

Again the waters of the Seine, as iihey flowed by the island 
and chateau of Cleudon, reflected the Tosy splendors of a June 
sunset. But no pleasure-boat was gliding down the stream, 
no young voices were enlivening tha silent landscape. A 
mournful change had passed over tho scene. The staircase 
leading to the river had a desolate, neglected air: grass was 
sprouting here and there through the loosened flags; while the 
terrace above, once so carefully tended, and still gay with 
summer flowers, was evidently falling into disorder. Within 
the chateau there were changes also; consequent, no doubt, 
upon the one great sad change which had taken place nearly 
two years before, leaving Mme. Monteres a widow and Gene- 
vieve an orphan. 

These two sat together in a spacious but barely furnished 
room, hung with faded tapestry, and lighted by narrow win- 
dows looking out on the river. Mme. Monteres occupied an 
arm-chair, Genevieve a low stool at her feet. Three years had 
changed the pretty child into a very beautiful girl. In those 
days, “ youth ripened fast, and the shadows of age fell early. 
Already at fifteen she stood — 

“ Where the brook and river meet, 

Womanhood and childhood fleet.” 

Indeed, she might be almost said to have already quitted the 
brook for the river. Yet the innocence of childhood lingered 
still in the large violet eyes, and the trust of childhood beamed 
from the fair young face, which was raised so lovingly to meet 
her mother^s sad and anxious gaze. She had been making 
lace, and the pillow still lay in her lap, though her hands were 
idle; her mother, too, was unoccupied — a rare event for her. 
Instead of the needle-work or the book she was so seldom seen 
without, she held an open letter in her hand. 

“ Mother, dear mother,^' pleaded Genevieve, “ will you not 
tell me what has been troubling you all day?^^ 


14 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ It is hard to tell, my child/' answered the elder woman, 
in low, sorrowful tones; “ still, you and Margot are all I have 
to speak to now, and it goes without saying that you must be 
told." 

“ That letter is from Monsieur Avordun," said Genevieve, 
anxious to help her mother to the explanation that seemed so 
difficult. 

It was made after all in a very few words, very calmly 
spoken: “ My child. Monsieur Avordun has sold the chateau. 
We must go, and go at once." 

A half-startled, half -passionate cry, “ Oh, mother, mother!" 
was the answer. Then Genevieve buried her face in her 
mother's black robe, and there was. a long silence. 

“ Art thou so sorry, my child? Speak to me, speak and 
tell me," said Mme. Jilonteres, at last, very tenderly. 

Young as she was, Genevieve had learned already the lesson 
of self-command. She looked up, met her mother's eyes, and 
said calmly — though her voice was half choked with tears — 
“We have known it was coming for so long. I will try — we 
will try to bear it for each other's sake, will we not?" 

“There speaks my brave, good child." Then, after a 
pause, “ Monsieur Avordun says the new lord is coming im- 
mediately." 

Genevieve changed her position, and looked about the room 
with a 'Curious, doubtful air. One of those sudden intrusions 
of the common things of life into moments of deep emotion 
with which we are all familiar prompted her to ask: “ What 
shall we do with the furniture?" 

A half smile, sadder than a tear, flitted across the mournful 
face of Mme. Monteres as she answered, “ I thought you 
would have asked first. What shall we do with ourselves?" 

“ Oh, as for that, we shall be together. We shall always 
have each other. I suppose we shall go somewhere— to Ver- 
non, or Eouen, or, better still, to Paris. Mother, dear moth- 
er, let us go to Paris." A vivid flush overspread the young 
face, and the bright eyes grew doubly bright with eagerness. 
After all, this uprooting — for the old so unmitigated in its 
sadness — might have its consolations for the young. 

“ Yes; 1 have been thinking about it for a long time, since 
I knew that this must come, and I have reached the conclusion 
that it will be best for us to go to Paris. " 

“ And then we will find out Edouard, and he will help us? 
Only, mother " — and the bright face darkened again, “it is 
so strange, is it not, that he has not written to us for so long 


GEKEVIEVE. 15 

a time? I fear — I think he must be gone away, otherwise we 
should have heard from him/^ 

“I do not think that. He is scarcely likely yet to have 
joined the army; nor is there anything the least strange in his 
silence. What would you have? He has other things to do 
than to write to us.^^ 

“ But, mother, you wrote to him last.^^ 

“ That signifies nothing. I merely wrote to thank him for 
that letter, so full of friendship, which gratified us both so 
much. I did not expect a reply. There are a thousand 
things' likely to hinder his writing to us, without supposing 
that he has forgotten us. Or, possibly, he may have written, 
and the letter may have miscarried. 

“We shall -find out when we go to Paris. V 
“We shall try. I do not cherish any fooli^ and fanciful 
hopes of finding the old relations unchanged; and meeting 
again in the nephew of Monsieur le Due de Graffont, and very 
probably his heir, the child we loved in the old days, which 
are never to return. I know the world, and what the world 
does with young hearts and lives, too well for any dreams of 
that sort. But I do expect from the son of Emile de Sercourt 
and the ward of Etienne Monteres such protection and help as 
he, in his degree, may honorably offer, and we in ours as hon- 
orably accept. 

A silence followed these proud words. They fell coldly on 
the young heart of Genevieve, and she found no reply to them. 
Presently Margot entered, bearing a small lamp, which she set 
upon the table, where it shone like a tiny star, amid the dark- 
ness of the great, bare, somber room. Soon she returned 
again with the frugal supper of the ladies — little rolls of white 
bread and a basket of strawberries, served daintily upon a 
snowy napkin. 

“ Stay, Margot, said Mme. Monteres, gently, as she pre- 
pared to leave the room, “ I wish to speak with you.^^ 

Genevieve knew what was coming. She had had as much 
as she could bear for the present, so she slipped quietly out of 
the room. She ran quickly through several gloomy passages, 
and down a dimly lighted flight of stairs. Then, lifting the 
latch of a dilapidated door, she found herself in the silent, 
neglected court, where the grass was already growing thickly; 
crossing this, she reached a row of deserted stables, of which 
only one showed the slightest sign of occupation. From this, 
as she approached, the gentle head of Jeannette was stretched 
out in mild expectancy of a crust or an apple. Mme. Monteres 
had never liked to ask Genevieve to part with the little creat- 


1(3 


GENEVIEVE. 


ure, who, though now very old, was still able to bear the light 
weight of her young mistress. Genevieve stroked and patted 
the rough brown coat of her favorite, who, not quite content 
with such barren tokens of affection, smelled her hands and 
her dress, and thrust her nose into her pockets, in hope of 
more substantial favors. 

“ I forgot, this time,^’ said the girl. “ Poor Jeannette, dear 
old Jeannette,- we are going away. Who will care for you 
now?’’ By this time her arms were round the neck of the 
pony, and her head was resting on its .shoulder. “ Oh, Jean- 
nette, Jeannette, tell me where is your master?” Bringing 
with them tears and a storm of sobs that would not be re- 
pressed, her mother’s words came back to her, ‘‘ No hope of 
finding again the child we used to love!” So they were gone 
— all gone — the dear old days. The loved and tender father 
was with the dead; the old home given up to strangers; the 
old life torn up, by the roots. And the old friend and play- 
fellow, so dear, so gentle, so kind! Was he gone forever, too? 
No; she would not believe it. They .might be separated* from 
each other; she might never see him more upon earth; but 
yet, wherever he was, he would still be the same Edouard. 
Genevieve, amid her sobs, said it over and over again; she 
spoke it silently in her own heart, sh 



of the dumb unconscious creature 


loved. “ Yes, Jeannette, we will find him again in Paris, and 
we will find him unchanged.” 

It was characteristic of - Genevieve that as soon as her pas- 
sionate burst of weeping had spent itself a little, she slipped 
back into the house, reached the pantry, found what was not 
found too easily there — a piece of bread, and brought it to the 
expectant pony. 

“ It is only black bread, Jeannette,” she said, in a tone of 
apology; “ but often now mother and 1 have nothing else for 
ourselves. Good-night, dear Jeannette. How many times 
more shall I bid you good-night, I wonder?” 


CHAPTER III. 


MEMORIES OF THE PAST. 


Genevieve found her mother rather comforted than other- 
wise by her conversation with her faithful old servant. So 
greatly had she dreaded the task of telling Margot that they 
must part, that it was a positive relief to her to have it over. 
Moreover, there was a very real satisfaction in finding that the 
good old woman would not be left without a home; as her son. 


GENEVIEVE. 


17 


who had recently lost his wife, had been urging her to come 
and take care of his motherless children. Mme. Monteres told 
this to Genevieve, adding, “ The good God, who cares for 
Margot, will not forsake us.'’^ 

Genevieve assented, hoping inwardly that in the dim light 
the traces of tears on her face might pass unobserved. “ Shall 
I read to you as usual, dear mother?’’ she asked. 

“ Not to-night. Let us talk instead. Sit down, my child.” 

“Yes, mother, in the place I love best;” and she resumed 
her seat on the stool at her mother’s feet. 

“Just now, Genevieve, you asked me about the furniture. 
I will ask you something in return. Has it ever occurred to 
you to think upon what we have been living all this time, since 
thy father died?” 

“No, mother, not exactly. I supposed it was with us as it 
had always been — that things just went on.” 

“A natural thought enough, but a child’s thought for all 
that. Genevieve, when we lost the lawsuit we lost everything, 
except this old chateau, and the furniture in it. Even then 
the chateau and its grounds were mortgaged to their full 
value. Since that time we have lived, and lived as you know, 
most frugally, upon money borrowed on the security of the 
furniture. As we can not pay, the furniture will now be sold 
by our creditor. Monsieur Avordun. It may be that it will 
realize a few crowns over and above the amount of our debt — 
just enough to carry us to Paris.” 

“ I could never understand about that lawsuit, mother. 
How was it that my father lost it, when he was entirely in the 
right? Of course he was in the right?” 

“ The affair is very complicated, my child; and it would be 
quite impossible for me to detail to thee all its windings and 
intricacies. Indeed, I do not understand them myself. 
Women can never understand law. But women can very well 
understand truth, right, and justice. And this being so, I 
can tell thee the true cause of thy father’s ruin. He spoke 
truth, maintained right, and did justice.” 

“ Oh, mother, I knew it; lam so glad! So glad and proud 
of him. ” 

“Well may you be proud of such a father, child. But to 
make plain to you what 1 mean; we read in the Holy Script- 
ures that the preacher saith, ‘ I considered all the oppressions 
that are done under the sun, and the tears of such as were op- 
pressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their 
oppressors there was power, but thay had no comforter.’ 
That was just what youi; father did.” 


18 


GEKEYIEVE. 


‘‘ But how could that cause the lawsuit, mother 
“ To try to explain it to you, even to give you any idea of 
it, J must go a long way back. You scarcely remember your 
grandfather. But at least you know that he was very rich, 
the son of a wealthy member of the haute bourgeoisie in Eouen; 
and he obtained, by purchase, I believe, the lucrative office of 
farmer-general of certain taxes in the Province of Normandy. 
Naturally, he wished his son to follow in his footsteps, and not 
only to inherit, but to augment, his enormous fortune. By 
right of custom, too, his place would have descended to his 
son, on payment of certain dues to the king. But thy father 
had other views of life. He thought theVe were many things 
better worth having than gold or silver. 

“ Did he wish to embrace a religious life, mother?’^ 

“Not so, my daughter. Strange it is that he — he who loved 
truth and goodness better than his life — yet loved but coldly, 
if at all, that faith which is the root of all goodness, and that 
Church which is the divinely appointed guardian of all truth. ” 
“ But, dear mother, you are speaking now of his youth; 
only of his youth. Afterward, surely, God gave him His 
grace. 

“ I am speaking of his youth,^^ the mother answered, still 
with a certain reserve. “ No doubt something must be 
allowed also for the influence of his Huguenot friend, the fa- 
ther of our Edouard, whom he loved so passionately; not that 
he ever showed any inclination to Protestantism; he rather 
grew indifferent to all forms of faith. He seemed to look 
upon religion as milk for babes, something good enough for 
women and children, not strong meat for strong men. I have 
heard, however, that his friend, the young Marquis de Ser- 
court, was of another temper, and ardently attached to his 
own faith, for which indeed he lost everything. 

“ How was that, mother?’^ 

“ When the Huguenot war, wliich ended in the capture of 
Rochelle,* broke out first, De Sercourt, still very young, 
threw himself heart and soul into the business. Unhappily, 
he was his own master, his father and mother being both dead; 
so he embarked all his fortune, which was considerable, in 
the cause; and finally he went to Rochelle, and was there dur- 
ing the siege, aiding the misguided inhabitants in the desper- 
ate defense of which all. the world has heard. 

“ But, mother, was he not a younger son? Yes, of course, 

* In the time of Louis XIII. and Cardinal Richelieu. 


GENEVIEVE. 


19 


he must have been, for Monsieur le Due de Graitont, his 
brother, is the head of the house, and a Catholic. Why did 
he not restrain him?^^ 

“ It was not easy in those days to restrain Monsieur le Mar- 
quis de Sercourt. I believe your father entreated him, even 
with tears, not to go to Rochelle. But he joined to the gen- 
tlest of manners and the tenderest of hearts a will of iron. 
Moreover, he possessed what is ever a snare to a young man, 
a large independent fortune left him by his mother, who was 
his father’s second wife, a great heiress and an ardent Hugue- 
not.” 

“ Why is it, then, that Edouard has nothing now?” 

“ Because his father squandered every crown he possessed 
equipping soldiers to be shot, and building bastions to be razed 
to the ground in that most unhappy war. Its close made De 
Sercourt a hunted fugitive, for he was exempted from the 
king’s pardon; and it did not improve his condition that while 
in Rochelle he married a young lady, orphaned by the war 
and of noble birth, but without fortune.” 

“ Edouard’s mother?” 

“ Edouard’s mother, whom he never knew; for she did not 
long survive the hardships of her wandering life. After her 
death he came here to us, a broken-hearted man, with nothing 
left him in the world but a motherless babe. Your father, as 
you know already, took both to his heart and home. He 
ministered like a brother to the last days of his friend, and 
brought up Edouard as his own son. But I am wandering 
from my story; yet scarcely that after all, since the lives as 
well as the souls of Etienne Monteres and Emile de Sercourt 
were knit together. In those days of their ardent youth, when 
they two used to pace the terrace of old Monsieur Monteres’s 
splendid chateau, exchanging their eager confidences till the 
stars faded and the morning sky grew red, I think they 
dreamed of nothing less than renewing, between them, the 
face of the earth.” 

“ Did you know them then, mother?” 

“ Oh, no! dear; I was then a child receiving my education 
in the convent school of Port Royal des Champs. Bitter were 
the tears I shed when I was ordered home by my parents, that 
I might be married to the son of the wealthy farmer-general. 
Monsieur Monteres. But thy father has often told me of 
these old days before I knew him; and Monsieur de Sercourt, 
when he came here to die, spoke of them also. It may be 
easily imagined that ^to a young man whose head was filled 


20 


GE^TEVIEVE. 


with such visions, the collection of the Gabelle^ was not likely 
to prove a very congenial occupation. 

“ I should think not, indeed, said Genevieve, with a little 
flash of indignation. “ I know about the Gabelle. I know 
how Margot’s cousin, old Jacques Benoit, had his cottage 
pulled down, that the wood of the rafters might be sold to pay 
the Gabelle. It is a dreadful tax, mother.” 

‘‘You are not to fancy anything so childish as that great 
farmers-general, like your grandfather, pull down the cottages 
of poor men, and take their beds from under them, because 
they can not pay their taxes. They leave that to their agents, 
or the servants of their agents, or more likely to the servants’ 
servants of their agents. ” 

“ But, in the sight of God, is it not they that do it all the 
same?” 

“ That was what thy father thought; a thought that in the 
end cost him all his fqrtune. But for that thought of his, the 
poor wreck of a chateau might be a palace to-day, and you a 
great heiress.” 

“ Mother, I would far rather have things as they are.” 

Mme. Monteres rested her hand for a moment on the bowed 
head of her daughter, with its wealth of golden hair. “ God 
accept thy sacrifice,” she said, “for I believe that willing 
acquiescence makes it thine in His sight. ” She continued 
presently, “ Thy father steadily refused to enter the finance 
department, and prepare to take up in due time his father’s 
lucrative charge. He entered instead the legal profession. 
Which offers the best career to a son of the haute hourgeoisie, 
whose talents and energy may win for him a place among the 
noblesse de la robe. He distinguished himself early, and be- 
came a member of the Parliament at Rouenf and a zealous 
defender of the rights of the Provincial Parliament, as against 
the Parliament of Paris. ” 

“ That is not a cause for which I should have cared much,” 
. said Genevieve, indifferently. 

“ Probably you and I would have found the debates on the 
subject intolerably dull, as they certainly were interminably 
long,” Mme. Monteres acquiesced. “ Yet your father cared 
about it, and cared passionately. The watchwords of his life 
were these three: Duty, Right, Liberty.” 

* The salt tax, in those days a terrible engine of extortion and op- 
pression, 

f Each province of France had then its separate Parliament. 


GEKEVIEVE. 


21 


“ Yes; but Right and rights — that is, your right and mine 
—are very different things, are they not, mother?” 

“ True; but they rest on the same foundation; and al- 
though you and I often may — sometimes should — forego our 
own rights, we ought to hold those of others a sacred trust. On 
this principle thy father always acted. In process of time, old 
Monsieur Monteres died, and his charges passed into other 
hands. Then the Parliament of Rouen made complaint con- 
cerning certain abuses in the collection of the taxes, and thy 
father became its mouthpiece and advocate. ” 

“ What kind of abuses, mother?” 

“ When old Benoit^s house was pulled down, it was done in 
the king's name, and to pay the king's tax upon salt. But 
how much of the money that was got for the wood went into 
the king's treasury? Work that sum out if you can.” 

“ I can't. There were so many people between, and they 
all had to be paid, I suppose.” 

“ ‘ So many people between ' — that is just the truth. Not 
honest people either, but rogues, who tried to enrich them- 
selves as quickly as they could. So poor Benoit and his chil- 
dren were ruined, and perhaps, at most, a miserable half 
crown found its way into the king's treasury. It was to lessen 
this ‘ oppression which was done under the sun ' that thy fa- 
ther strove so hard. ” 

Did he succeed, mother?” 

“ No, child, he did not succeed. He could not redress the 
wrong; he could only make powerful enemies for himself. 
They say that Monsieur Colbert, who has just been appointed 
Minister of Finance by the king, is going to try what he can 
do for the cause of the poor and miserable, who are oppressed 
and spoiled without remedy. He is a great man, and the king 
favors him; perhaps he may have better fortune — God grant 
it! There is one of God's ways I have often thought on, and 
it is wonderful to me. Whenever there is a good thing to be 
done. He lays it on the hearts of good men to do it. One by 
one they try, and fail, and suffer; some of them even die. 
Then, at l^st, He raises some one up who tries and%does not 
fail; and he reaps all the joy of victory, and all the glory in 
the eyes of the world. 1 suppose Monsieur Colbert's name 
will go down to posterity as the benefactor of his king and his 
country; while thy father was ruined while living, and will be 
forgotten when dead. Such is the world's way, my child.” 

“ Mother, mother,” said Genevieve, almost with a cry of 
pain, “ I thought you said it was God's way, not the world's.” 

“Child, thy rebuke is just. God lets things happen so; 


22 


GENEVIEVE. 


nay, of course, He ordains them, else they could not be. We 
must lay our hands on our mouths and be still. Thy father 
. always said there was a curse in his inherited wealth, and that 
it would melt away like the gold the devil gives his dupes in 
the witch stories. Certainly it did with him. First, he re- 
stored any sums that he could find out had been unjustly ex- 
acted, though it was clearly impossible to restore all — as well 
try to gather again a flask of water spilled on the sand. After- 
ward came losses and exactions of various kinds, all connected 
in one way or other with the part he had played in public life. 
Lastly, this terrible lawsuit.'’^ 

‘‘ It was the Abbe de Gars who began it against my father, 
was it not, mother 

“ The Abbe de Gars was only a man of straw; or at least a 
puppet, of which the strings were pulled by others. It was 
pretended that thy grandfather’s title to the extensive property 
in the neighborhood of Rouen, upon which he built his splen- 
did chateau, was null and void, because the person who sold 
it to him — a ruined, dissipated nobleman, dead long ago — had 
no legal right or power to dispose of it. This Abbe de Gars 
— a man of worthless character, and a penniless hanger-on of 
certain great nobles, whom he was perpetually importuning 
for benefices which he never got — was pitched upon as the 
legal owner. At first thy father despised the whole affair, 
looking upon it ais a mere conspiracy got up against him by 
persons connected with the financial administration, whose 
malpractices he had opposed. Which it certainly was.” 

‘‘But, mother, it was so very unjust. My grandfather had 
paid his own money for the estate, had he not? It was the 
man who received it who ought to have been prosecuted. 
That is as clear as noon-day. ” 

“ Yes, to non-legal minds like ours,” said Mme. Monteres, 
with a certain bitterness of tone. “ Still, even allowing for 
the proverbial uncertainties of law, the result would not have 
been what it was, had not implacable personal enmity com- 
bined w^h self-interest, and both been backed by great wealth 
and high influence, very unscrupulously used.”* 

“ But why did the king allow it?” 

“ The king — God save and protect him! — knew nothing of 
it. How could he? When it all began he was a child, and 
he is still very young. But he is a right kingly king — good 

* At that time both the civil and criminal law in France were in 
great confusion, and flagrant abuses prevailed. 


OT-IN'EVIEVE. 


^3 


and noble, and willing to do justice to all.* Yet there is only 
one King whoso eyes are in every place, beholding tho evil 
and the good. To Him, and to Him alone, we must look for 
justice. 

“ I think, mother, it must have begun before I was born. 
At least, 1 never remember the time when ‘ the lawsuit ^ was 
not there, hanging over us like a thunder-cloud.^^ 

‘‘ Certainly it seemed interminable. What with pleas and 
counter-pleas, appeals and counter-appeals, and disputes and 
removals of jurisdiction, the afiair being carried from one court 
to another, it seemed to become in the end a mere tangle of 
legal chicaneries. We began to think it would never be de- 
cided at all. 

“ And then, after all those years of waiting, it seemed so 
sad — so cruel — that the decision should come when it did. If 
they had but waited a little longer — only a few short months 
“ Child, God’s ways are not like ours.^^ 

“ True, dear mother. As you said just now, we must be 
still. 

Mme. Monteres was silent for a few moments. Then she 
said, very gently and thoughtfully, as she stroked her daugh- 
ter's golden hair: “ I meant then, that there were ways of His 
we can not understand; and to these we must bow in silence, 
knowing He is just and good. But sometimes He lets us un- 
derstand. He shows us, as it were. His secret; then we do 
not merely trust, we hnow — and that helps us to trust where 
we can not know. To me at first, as now to thee, it seemed 
most bitter that the long-watched thunder-cloud should break 
at last, with thy father lying on his bed of death. My heart 
cried aloud in its anguish: ‘ If only he had not known ! If 
only this cup of bitterness had been spared him, how willing- 
ly, nay, how joyfully, would I drink it afterward to the very 
dregs!'’ 

“ Ah, mother, I remember that sad day when the tidings 
came! I shall never forget it. Did I not bring you the letter 
myself, and see your face as you read it?^^ 

“ Sore was the temptation to keep it from him, to bury the 
disastrous news in my own heart. But I dared not, for he 
always questioned me strictly about every letter that came, 
and 1 could not tell a lie.^^ 

‘‘ Would it have been wrong, for that? I thought much 
about it at the time, though I could not speak of it to you.^^ 

“ It was not so we learned at Port Royal. Even at the bid- 

* So people spoke and thought then of Louis XIV. 


2i 


GENEVIEVE. 


ding of his holiness the pope, the sainted women to whom 1 
owe all 1 know of true religion refused to affirm a falsehood. 
I have cause to bless God for their teaching and example. I 
scarcely know how much I ought to tell thee about thy father, 
child. But already thou knowest something of what passed 
within him in those two last months. 

“ Yes, mother, I know,""’ said Genevieve, softly, and with 
gathering tears. “ One day, as I sat beside him while you 
slept, he told me he had always tried to do right and justice 
to his fellow-men, but that he had not thought of God, or 
loved and ‘served Him as he ought. That now he saw his 
error — and oh, mother, 1 shall never forget the look with 
which he stopped, and changed the word — * No, not my error, 
n^y sin. Which I pray God to pardon, for the sake of His 
Son our Saviour.^ 

“ He said that to you? To me he said the same and more. 
And you know he received the holy sacrament with much de- 
votion, fulfilled all Christian obligations, and made a most de- 
vout and edifying end,"’’ added Mme. Monteres, lapsing from 
the height of genuine experience, truly and naturally ex- 
pressed, to the lower level of set and stereo tyjeed phraseology. 
She continued, presently: “ I believe the loss of that lawsuit 
was God^s messenger to him, a very angel in disguise. From 
the hour he heard of it his heart turned away from this world 
to the true fountain of justice, to the Judge who judgeth in 
righteousness. To Him he opened his cause. Somehow, 
when he brought his sorrow to Him, he learned his sin in not 
having sought and trusted Him before. Thus it was that, ere 
he died, he blessed God for that bitter lawsuit, with its terri- 
ble ending. And, Genevieve, the day has come when 1 can do 
the same, though it be with tears. 

For answer, Genevieve drew dovm her mother^s hand, which 
was resting on her shoulder, and kissed it tenderly. There 
was a silence, followed after a little by a return to the tone 
and manner of ordinary life. ‘‘Yes, my child; it is clear that 
we ought to go to Paris, so soon as the necessary arrange- 
ments can be made. We have to seek out Edouard; but even 
if he were not there, we have always Port Eoyal de Paris to 
go to. It is true that the blessed Mere Angelique is, I fear, 
very ill, and the dear and excellent ladies of her community 
are now oppressed and persecuted; still, they will be able to 
give us at least wise counsel, if not a home and a friendly wel- 
come. Once we are within reach of them, I shall feel that we 
are safe. But, Genevieve, we have talked long enough for to- 
night. Go to rest now, my child, and God be with thee! Let 


Iff ‘ ' ■ 

GENEVIEVE. 25 

not thy sleep be broken, either by regi’ets lor the past or by 
cares for the future. He hath said, ‘ 1 will never leave thee, 
nor forsake thee ^ — and His word is sure/^ 


CHAPTER IV. 

CLOSED DOCKS. 

Closed gate- ways that are folded 
And prayed against in vain, 

E. B. Browning. 

Mme. Monteres was a noble specimen of the noblest type 
of French woman, that type of which the celebrated Mere 
Angelique, whose wise counsels and holy influence had been 
the inspiration of her girlhood, was one of the brightest ex- 
amples. Educated under the personal superiritendence of that 
remarkable woman, and in the hallowed shades of Port Royal 
des Champs, she exemplified the best virtues of her instructors, 
if she did not quite escape their defects. Upon her naturally 
upright mind had been ingrafted an ideal of faith and recti- 
tude lofty as that which made her venerated teachers, other- 
wise docile adherents of the Church of Rome, resist Rome her- 
self rather than affirm that certain propositions were contained 
in the works of Jansenius — when they had never been able to* 
find them there. 

Above all, she was truly pious, after the Jansenist fashion 
of piety, probably the best and most enlightened Rome has 
ever tolerated within her bosom. Scarcely, indeed, did she 
tolerate that, since the Jansenists and their allies in Port 
Royal, became the objects of a bitter persecution, in which the 
internecine enmity of darkness to light, of Rome to the liberty 
which is in Christ Jesus, was visible beneath a thin disguise of 
zealous orthodoxy. The “five propositions^^ of Jansenius, 
about which men and women once so passionately contended, 
are not now of absorbing interest to the general reader, who 
will probably be content to know that they expressed, with 
some variations, those dogmas which we usually, though not 
very correctly, associate with the name of Calvin. But while 
the theological disquisitions of the Flemish bishop and his fol- 
lowers lie unopened on our shelves till the dust gathels thickly 
over them, the records that tell of the faith and pafcnce, of 
the suiferings and constancy of Mere Angelique Jid Mere 
Agnes, and their devoted sisterhood — of Arnauld and St. 
Cyran, of Nicole and De Sacy, of Jacqueline Pascal and her 
illustrious brother — noblest name of all that linger in the 


26 


GEITEVIEVE. 


echoes of Port Poyal — will be wet with human tears and dear 
to human sympathies as long as the world endures. 

Mme. Monteres learned at Port Poyal not religion only, hut 
Christ. His person and His work were truly the center of a 
system which showed a wonderfully slight admixture of the 
grosser errors of Rome. Neither saint nor Virgin usurped 
His place in these devout and believing hearts; and although 
good works were strongly insisted upon and abundantly per- 
formed, yet the language of heart and lip was always that of 
sole reliance on the mercy of God in Christ Jesus. The pupil 
of Port Royal sought diligently to impart her own faith to her 
husband, her child, and all within her influence. Toward 
Edouard, much to her sorrow, she conceived herself bound 
over to silence by her husband. This had been a heavy bur- 
den on her conscience, and the rather because, in her igno- 
rance of Protestantism, she had no idea how much common 
ground they would have discovered, had they been able to talk 
freely together. Still less did she imagine that she was her- 
self already half a Protestant; she would have repudiated the 
idea with horror, for, like her teachers, she thought com- 
munion with the Church of Rome absolutely necessary to sal- 
vation. This, of course, intensifled her grief and anxiety 
about Edouard, for whose conversion she failed not to offer up 
The most constant and fervent prayers. 

A devoted wife and mother, she was on that very account 
in her own estimation less than the least of her cloistered in- 
structors; for had she not embraced “ the lower vocation,'’^ 
“the secular life — did she not “ belong to the world 
She had been trained in asceticism, of a pure and lofty, but 
at the same time of a severe and narrow type. In practice 
this had been necessarily modifled by her position, with its 
duties, interests, and cares. Its duties she had admirably 
fulfilled, proving to her husband a real companion and help- 
meet, a frugal manager of his ever-lessening means, and an 
indefatigable nurse in his long and trying illness. The edu- 
cation she had received at Port Royal stood her in good stead, 
for there both head and heart were well cultivated, and the 
requirements of domestic life were at the same time thorough- 
ly considered. It was held that a woman would make gar- 
ments for the poor, dispense stores of meal and rye, bind up 
wounds and tend sicknesses, none the worse, but all the bet- 
ter, for a knowledge of Latin and logic. 

Up to the time of the breaking up of her home Mme. Mon- 
teres had borne herself, not well and bravely alone, but wisely 
also, under the varied trials of her life. But at the last stroke 


GENEVIEVE. 


• 27 

^ which robbed her of the Chateau of Cleudon, her presence of 
mind and practical sagacity seemed to fail her, although her 
faith and resignation remained intact. She found herself in- 
volved in perplexities which she had not anticipated, and did 
not understand. To be without a home was something like 
being without a body. No past experience came to her aid; 
neither her natural good sense, her training, nor the habits of 
her life-time availed her here. There was Genevieve to be 
provided for; while only a few crowns remained in her pocket 
after everything belonging to them both had been sold, and a 
sum sufficient for the expenses of their journey to Paris de- 
posited in the hands of the man of business, M. Avordun. 
The journey itself was a formidable affair, even although he 
had undertaken to arrange all its details and to find them a 
suitable escort. In the new sense of weakness and helpless- 
ness, which was born of the uprooting of all the conditions of 
her past life, the naturally independent Mme. Monteres be- 
came ready to lean upon others. Once in Paris, she thought 
that she might calculate upon 'the help of Edouard; and, far 
more largely, upon the friendship and sympathy of the nuns 
at Port Koyal de Paris, which was a branch of the same estab- 
lishment, and under the same rule as the more celebrated 
Port Koyal des Champs. She had no near relatives of her 
own, nor were there any of her husband^s to whom she could 
confide Genevieve; and, what added grievously to her per- 
plexities, she felt that her health was failing rapidly. 

Journeys in France at that time were by no means either 
safe or easy; the country had not yet recovered from the 
effects of the war of the Fronde, and many of the roads were 
infested with bands of robbers. It was fortunate therefore 
that Mme. Monteres and Genevieve were able to travel nearly 
all the way by water; at Vernon, M. Avordun saw them on 
board one of the boats which then navigated the Seine, and 
although they endured much discomfort, they encountered 
neither difficulty nor danger until they reached the great city. 
But when at length the two solitary ladies found themselves 
standing on the Quai des Augustins, near the Pont Neuf, 
they felt absolutely bewildered. The confusion, the cries, the 
Babel of voices, the unaccustomed sights around them, might 
well have confounded less inexperienced travelers. Never in 
her life had Genevieve trod the streets or breathed the air of a 
city, while the very limited experiences of Mme. Monteres had 
been forgotten years ago. Happily, the captain of the vessel, 
to whom M. Avordun had given them in charge, came to their 
aid. He promised to see their modest luggage in safe keeping. 


GENEVIEVE. 


and inquired if they ^wished to go to an inn, or if haply they 
had friends in the city who would receive them. 

Mme. Monteres answered promptly, “We wish to go to the 
Convent of Port Eoyal, in the Faubourg St. Jacques.^’ 

“The ladies ought to have sent for you. No doubt they 
have carriages,'’^ said the captain, who entertained, not un- 
reasonably, a very high idea of the wealth and luxury of the 
great conventual establishments; and who was, moreover, a 
little puzzled as to how he might safely dispose of his charges. 

“ I am sure they have not,^^ returned Mme. Monteres. 
“ They have taken the vow of holy poverty. But as for our-, 
selves, can we not walk thither? We are good walkers, my 
daughter and 1. 

The captain shook his head. “ It is a long way,^^ he said, 
“ but that is the least part of the diflBculty. The streets are 
horribly unsafe just now. liadies may be robbed and mur- 
dered in broad daylight, as like as not. 

Mme. Monteres had not expected such a state of things in 
great Paris, the pearl of cities, the pride of all* Prance, the 
dwelling-place of the king. But she hid her alarm and dis- 
appointment, and merely asked: “ Then how are we to get 
there? Can we hire horses?'^ She did not dream of hiring a 
carriage, nor could she probably have found one for hire in all 
Paris. 

“That is what you must do. The innkeeper, who is a 
friend of mine, will find you a couple of horses, and three or 
four stout well-armed men to protect you.^^ 

To this arrangement Mme. Monteres found herself obliged 
to consent, although it made a heavy inroad on her slender 
purse — a consideration which affected her more than it did 
Genevieve, who, mounted on her pillion behind a stout lackey 
in a buff jerkin, surveyed the busy scene with intense wonder 
and curiosity. Her first sight of the great city was, however, 
very disappointing. The streets through which they passed 
were extremely narrow and horribly dirty, and the houses on 
either side were tall, grim, and forbidding in appearance. 
The magnificent hotels and palaces of which she had heard so 
much, and in one of which she pictured Edouard, gay and 
smiling, ready to give them a friendly welcome, were, for the 
most part, jealously concealed from the public eye within the 
high walls of their gardens and pleasure-grounds. There 
were, it is true, a few splendid exceptions; even then the Rue 
St. Honore, the Place Royale, and the noble churches of old 
Paris would have charmed the unaccustomed eyes of a 
stranger, but they did not pass by any of these. They turned 


genevieVe, 


29 


at last into a broader street, which seemed interminable, and 
was also rather lonely, as on either side of great part of it were 
the high forbidding walls of convents or other large buildings. 
Her conductor said it was the Rue St. Jacques. 

Presently they drew up at a gate-way, where they were 
challenged by a sentinel. After some parley, however, they 
were allowed to pass, and leaving what was properly styled the 
city behind them, they entered the Faubourg St. Jacques. 
Here came more solitary ways between high walls; but, after 
traversing some few of these, and also passing by a church, 
one of the guides exclaimed suddenly, “ There, mesdames, 
there is Port Royal de Paris. 

“ There?'’ said Genevieve. I see nothing but a wall, and 
a soldier walking up and down under it.” 

“ That is the garden wall, ma'amselle— wait till we turn 
this corner.” 

When they had done so, shb saw a great gate jealously 
barred, and, as it appeared, guarded by soldiers. 

At this point their guides asserted that their work was done, 
and that they must return home; demanding their payment, 
with additions so exorbitant that Mme. Monteres was roused 
to protest. But her gentle remonstrances evoked such inso- 
lent violence of language that she and Genevieve were soon glad 
to get rid of them at any cost, Genevieve taking charge of the 
small bag they had brought with them. ‘‘ Now, at last, we 
shall find friends,” said Mme. Monteres, clasping her daugh- 
ter’s hand, and advancing toward the formidable gate- way. 

They were promptly stopped by a soldier who seemed to be 
on guard. ‘^No entrance, ladies!” he said, firmly, though 
quite civilly. “ On the part of the king.” 

“ I do not understand,” said Mme. Monteres, bewildered. 

“ All the approaches are guarded,” said the soldier. ‘‘No 
entrance is allowed, and no egress.” 

“ But why — why?” There was no answer. Already the 
soldier, an archer of the king's guard, had passed on; he had 
no more to say. 

Mme. Monteres stood as one in a dream, and murmured in 


a vc.^'^e of desolation, “ The gate of Port Royal shut! — shut 

f.hA TkAnT* onrl •fT'io-n/llAaHT frArl Tiplrk 


agaiiat the poor and friendless! 

wm-^ ‘ - - 


God help us!’ 

she’ yet stood there, with the equally bewildered Gene- 


vieve % her side, an old priest came up to them and said 
courteously, “Ladies, you appear to be in some difficulty. 


Can I be of any use?” 

“ Can you explain this to me, 
Monteres, pointing to the gate. ’,':- 


monsieur?” asked Mme. 










30 


GENEVIEVE. 


The priest shrugged his shoulders slightly, and looked em- 
barrassed. It was not very safe, in those days of persecution, 
to “ explain the affairs of Port Royal to strangers in the 
street. For Jansenists of high degree and their sympathizers 
there was the Bastille; and there were plenty of other dun- 
geons for more lowly offenders.. “ I presume you are a 
stranger in Paris, madame,^^ he said, evasively. 

“ Only just arrived, with my daughter. I thought we had 
nothing to do but to come to this door, and to claim the ever- 
generous hospitality of my old friends, some of them my old 
fellow-pupils. 

“ Then it is my painful duty, madame, to inform you that 
the Convent of Port Royal de Paris has been, for the present, 
closed and placed under a military guard by Mon seigneur the 
Archbishop of Paris, acting with the authority of the king.^^ 

“ Closed? How? Has monseigneur given the inmates a 
house elsewhere? Or has a fever or some other infectious 
disease broken out in the convent?^'’ 

“Yes, madame, the priest replied, in a low mysterious 
tone, “ that is what they say. A disease of the soul, not of 
the body. You comprehend?^^ 

“No, indeed, I do not comprehend. A disease of the soul 
among these saint-like women! Monsieur, surely you are 
wrong there. 

“ I can not be wrong, madame, since I affirm nothing. I 
only repeat what others say. I am no judge of such matters; 
but when Monseigneur de Paris condescends to speak, a poor 
diacre office is at least bound to listen in silence. Learned 
doctors 'inform us that Jansenism is a disease of the soul, and, 
what is more, the name they give it is Heresy.” He lowered 
his tone as he breathed, rather than uttered, the fatal word. 
“ And for their cure,^^ he added, after a pause, “ the poor 
nuns — whom God help, for they were truly charitable ladies, 
and very good to the poor — have been dispersed among various 
other communities. The Mother Abbess — Mere Angelique, as 
they call her — is dead, as, perhaps, you know already. 

“I should have thought,^’ said Genevieve, “that to dis- 
perse the nuns would have been rather the way to spread the 
disease. But, mother, what shall we do now? VYhither shall 
we go?^^ 

“ Ah! I can not think— not justyet,^’ said Mme. Monteres, 
far more occupied just then with the misfortunes of Port 
Royal than with her own. “ It is all so strange: so sad !^^ 
Then, looking once more at the closed gate, she lost her self- 


GEKEVIEVE. 31 

control, and, faint already with fatigue, hunger, and. excite- 
ment, she gave way to a flood of unaccustomed tears. 

It was Genevieve^s turn now to act the part of comforter. 

“ Come, dear mother,"" she said, gently, putting her hand 
in hers, “ we must not grieve thus. God will make it all 
right for the holy nuns, who are persecuted wrongfully. The 
king and the archbishop will soon discover that they have been 
falsely accused. Besides, you know, mother, even if there 
were a little heresy among them, there are very good people 
who are heretics, such as Edouard. We must find Edouard 
now at once, mother, that is all. Shall we go to look for 
him? You have the address of the Hotel de Graff on t written 
down. It is in your pocket-book. "" 

Mme. Monteres, ashamed of her weakness, struggled to 
overcome it, and was soon successful. Her good sense told 
her it was not wise to stand weeping in the street, with the 
shades of evening drawing on, and no shelter for the night 
secured for herself or her daughter. 

“ Not now,"" she answered; “it is too late, and the Hotel 
de Graff ont much too far away. We must go somewhere for 
the night, and consider what to do in the morning."’ 

“ Where shall we go, mother? Back to the inn?’" 

Mme. Monteres shook her head. That at least was impos- 
sible. The way was far too long, even if it had been safe for 
them to attempt it on foot. 

The priest, who had withdrawn to a little distance, proba- 
bly to avoid hearing any expressions of opinion about Port 
Royal, now came forward again, and said, with much kind- 
ness: “ If madame desires a safe lodging with honest people, I 
think I can find her one. ” 

“ I shall esteem it a great favor, monsieur,” said Mme. 
Monteres, thankfully. She had a true countrywoman’s 
horror of the city and its perils, a horror under the circum- 
stances quite well-founded and justifiable. “ But,” she 
added, with a little hesitation, “ I ought to explain to mon- 
sieur that we are poor. We can not afford to pay much.” 

“ The honest people I speak of are poor themselves, and 
will let you have a little room for a very modest rent. The 
woman is a widow, with a son who supports her, a mason. It 
is not very far from this, just within the gate. I will’ bring 
you there, if you like. ” 

The weary travelers were only too glad to accept the offer. 
Under the guidance of the friendly priest they quitted the 
faubourg, re-entered the city, and traversed several narrow, 
dirty streets, with lofty houses on either side. It was nearly 


82 


OBNEVIEVE. 


dark by the time they stopped before one of these, and, still 
piloted by the priest, found their way up the ill-kept stair- 
case, common to the whole house. They were glad enough at 
last to reach a cold, bare room, which, inhospitable and un- 
inviting as it looked, had at least the merit of being safe and 
respectable, “among honest people,^'’ as the good priest said. 
Their landlady, a large, busy, stern-visaged woman, who 
looked quite able to hold her own in a street brawl, gave 
them some hot soup, with black bread and sour wine; while 
the young mason, who seemed a good-natured lad, brought 
some additional articles of furniture to their little room, and 
promised to fetch their luggage for them on the following day. 


CHAPTER V. 

SEEKING. 

And peace at last is nigh; 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
The o’erwearied dust from home. 

Hemans. 

Mme. Montekes and Genevieve little thought, when the 
door of Widow Manin^s dreary little room closed upon them, 
how many weeks they were to wear out in that safe but dismal 
shelter. The expedition which they made next day to the 
Hotel de Graffont only resulted in the discovery that the duke, 
with all his household, had gone for an indefinite time to his 
chateau in Auvergne, for the purpose, it was said, of enjoying 
the pleasures of the chase. There was no one to give them 
any further information. The truth, however, was this: 
the Due de Grafiont was a warm friend and partisan of 
Eouquet, the wasteful and profligate Minister of Finance, who 
had lately been disgraced by Louis XIV. , and his office be- 
stowed upon the able and honest Colbert, greatly to the 
benefit both of the king and the nation. M. de Graffont, 
however, shared the fortunes and misfortunes of his patron, 
and therefore found it convenient to absent himself from 
court for a season — likely enough to be a long one, for Louis 
the Magnificent was revengeful; his courtiers dreaded his 
frown, and had much reason to dread it. Of him it might 
truly have been said that his wrath was as the roaring of a 
lion, but his favor was like dew upon the grass. 

Thus it happened that two public events, both of which 
seemed far enough removed from their sphere—- the persecu- 
tion of Port Royal and the fall of Fouquet — destroyed the 
plans and wrecked the hopes of the desolate mother and child, 


GEHEVIEYB. 


33 


who thus found themselves stranded, as it were, upon the un- 
friendly shore of the great cold world of Paris. 

They knew not what to do or what steps to take next. 
They had not the means to return to the country; and had it 
been otherwise, they had no longer a home there to go to. So 
they lingered on from day to day and from week to week; 
Mme. Monteres perhaps hoping to find some of the ladies who 
had been driven from Port Royal, or to receive an answer to 
the letter which she addressed to Edouard at the chateau in 
Auvergne. But Genevieve did not at this time very clearly 
know what her mother, hoped or intended, as Mme. Monteres 
was unusually silent, and, though gentle and loving as ever, 
showed a failure in spirit and energy which filled her daughter 
with vague uneasiness. 

At last came a chill, unpromising November morning. 
The sky was gray and clouded, and a slight mist had begun 
to fall, while the tardy dawn was struggling feebly through 
the dull window of the little room still occupied by Mme. 
Monteres and Genevieve. Mme. Monteres had risen and 
dressed herself, and was moving noiselessly about; but Gene- 
vieve lay in a light slumber on the hard pallet they shared 
together. Presently, however, she stirred, and looked up. 
“ Oh, mother, are you dressed already? Why did you not 
call me?’^ 

“ There was no need. It is yet early. Stay, my child;’’ 
and, as Genevieve was about to rise, she stretched out her 
hand to prevent her. “ It is very cold, and we have no wood 
W for the stove. Best remain where you are. ” ^ 

“Then, mother dear, why have you risen? You suffer 
more from the cold than I do.” 

“ I rose because 1 have to go out. I must go to the 
market, and get the few things we need. It is true that 
Mathieu Manin, who is so obliging, would willingly save me 
the trouble: but I do not wish his mother to know how little 
money we have to spend. ” 

‘‘Quite right, mother, we will not let Mathieu do our 
errands. I do not like it or Mm ! I do not want him to 
come near us!” cried Genevieve, almost passionately. 

“ What has the poor lad done to thee?” asked her mother, 
with an air of mild surprise. “ He is always very civil.” 

“A great deal too civil! I can not bear him, mother; I 
would like never to see his face again,” said Genevieve, with a 
crimson flush on her own fair and delicate features. 

Mme. Monteres’s care-worn face flushed also, as for the first 
time, the idea crossed her mind that this son of the common 

3 


34 


GENEVIEVE. 


people might venture to admire the beautiful girl with whom 
he was thrown into daily contact. What unheard-of insolence 
and presumption! Gentle lady and good Christian though she 
was, Mme. Monteres could at that moment have crushed 
Mathieu Manin into the dust with a word or a glance of scorn. 
She was not “ noble, nor was Genevieve; but they were 
eminently “ well born,’^ of the very best of that haute bour- 
geoisie who passed on, with interest, to their social inferiors 
the scorn with which they themselves were regarded by the 
proud and exclusive noblesse. 

“If he show himself impertinent,^^ she said, stiffly, “we 
must go elsewhere.'’^ 

“ Indeed, mother, I wish we might; for if he is quite too 
civil his mother is quite too rude. Widow Manin does not like 
us, and would be glad to get rid of us.^^ 

“ Still, she is honest and respectable, and one bears a great 
deal for that. Perhaps she thinks we are not punctual enough 
with our rent. I intend to pay her to-day,"^ said Mme. Mon- 
teres, going to the chest which contained all the personal 
property still remaining to both. Having 'unlocked it, she 
took out a small leathern case, which she concealed carefully 
about her person. 

Genevieve watched her with sorrowful eyes. 

“ Oh, mother,^-^ she said, pleadingly, “ must that go too?^^ 

“ That.^ It is a matter of no consequence. Only a ring 
which I never wear now. But the ruby in it is a valuable one, 
and the money it will fetch will be very welcome. 

♦ “ But it was the gift of Edouard. Do you not remember 
how he brought it to you on your birthday, and said, ‘ I would 
it were a star, to shine for you in the darkness?’ Edouard will 
be so grieved when he knows it.” 

“ When he knows it,” Mme. Monteres repeated, as if half 
involuntarily. Then her sad face brightened a little, as a 
purpose, half formed before, took definite shape in her mind. 

“ Do not be surprised,” she said, “ if I am longer away 
than you expect. For I must go to the jeweler, as well as to 
the market; and, moreover, as it is a festival day, I may also 
go to church. Keep warm in bed as long as you can; and 
there is bread and wine, and a little cheese, on the shelf for 
your breakfast. ” 

“ Will you not eat before you go, mother?” 

“ No; it is too early. I can get a roll at the baker’s, as I 
pass.” 

Mme. Monteres wrapped a mantle about her, covered her 
white cap with the ca]^uche, or hood, usually worn by women 


GEKEVIEVE. 


35 


of the class to which she now appeared to belong, took a small 
basket in her hand, and, with a word of tender farewell to 
Genevieve, went out. 

First she bent her steps to the market, where the stalwart, 
loud-tongued, half-savage market-women were already busy 
attending to their stalls, and varying the occupation by an 
occasional passage of arms among themselves, or a torrent of 
foul abuse hurled at a dishonest or niggardly customer. The 
silent, black-robed figure passed almost unnoticed through the 
noisy crowd, and at last reached the corner where an old 
woman, more quiet than the rest, sold such poor scraps of 
meat as working folk could afford to buy for the pot au feu 
which formed the best part of their nourishment. With her 
she expended a few sous, and, having added some pot-herbs 
and some bread, she asked permission to leave the basket in 
her charge for an hour or two. 

“Willingly, madame. See, I will put it here under the 
bench, and it will be quite safe.'’^ As Mme. Monteres turned 
away, old Babet pointed her out to her next neighbor. “ Look 
there, m^amie ! May I be brought before Monsieur le Maire, 
and branded on the forehead lor keeping false weights, if that 
woman has not been used to sit at home and send her people 
to market for her, and plenty of them too. Ah! I know a 
grande dame when I see one, thanks to our Lady. But she 
looks very ill for all that.'’^ 

Meanwhile Mme. Monteres had left the market, and was 
making her way, with quick, agitated footsteps, not to the 
jeweler^s, to dispose of the ring, but in quite an opposite 
direction. A new-born hope lent strength and vigor to her 
weary, fainting feet. Had not Mathieu Manin told her the 
day before that a troop of masons were at work upon the hotel 
of the Due de Graff ont, and that one of his ‘ gentlemen ^ had 
come to town on purpose to superintend the alterations? This 
information she had withheld from Genevieve, lest it might 
lead to disappointment; but not less did she determine to act 
upon it at once, and the rather because a continually increas- 
ing sense of weakness, frequent headaches and dizziness, and 
ominous fiutterings of the heart, warned her that her time for 
action might be short. What could be more terrible than the 
thought of leaving Genevieve, alone and unprotected, to the 
tender mercies of Widow Manin? The only person in the 
great city whom, by any stretch of imagination, she could call 
a friend was the priest who had found the lodgings for them; 
and he, though not lacking in good will, had but little power 
to help. He was not only very poor, and cruelly overworked. 


36 


OENJiVIEyf?. 


but wanting in resource and energy; a life spent in the per- 
tormance of a ceaseless round of duties, rendered mechanical 
by constant repetition, had crushed these qualities out of him, 
if indeed he had ever possessed them. 

Mme. Monteres meditated sadly enough upon these things 
as she trod the ill-paved, uneven streets of old Paris, the Paris 
of Richelieu and the Fronde. Emerging from the squalid 
neighborhood in which Widow Manin lived, she soon found 
herself in the Rue St. Jacques, whence she made her way to 
the Place Royale, and reached at last a stately gate-way, with 
the arms of 6raflont carved above it in stone. The great gate 
was shut and barred; but at a little distance there was an un- 
pretending wicket in the wall, at which she knocked gently, 
in the hope of attracting attention. 

She was fortunate; for by and by the door was opened, not, 
as she expected, by a mere underling, but by a person in the 
dress of a gentleman — though a gentleman in deep mourning. 
He was evidently going out, and drew back slightly on seeing 
her. 

But she recognized in a moment her guesl of three years 
ago, the duke^s “ first gentleman,^ ^ who had been sent by him 
to bring Edouard to Paris. “ Monsieur d^Houditot!^^ she ex- 
claimed, with genuine pleasure, ‘‘ do you not remember me?^^ 

She forgot the change that sorrow had wrought in her, for- - 
got also the fact that she was wearing the dress of a woman of 
the 'petite lourgeoisie, such as the widow of an artisan or a 
small shop-keeper. Therefore the reply was somewhat un- 
expected. “ 1 do not remember you, my good woman, said 
the great man, in tones that suggested not too faintly the im- 
measurable gulf between them. 

But when she answered simply, “ I am the widow of Etienne 
Monteres, of Chateau Oleudon,^^ position and rank vanished 
from the thoughts of the duke^s first gentleman, and all that 
was . genuine in his nature spoke out. “ Is it possible?^^ he 
exclaimed. “ Madame, 1 entreat of you to enter. The house 
is quite dismantled, but there is a small chamber near at hand 
where we can talk at our ease.^^ He conducted her, with 
much politeness, across a spacious court, where the presence 
of loose stones and heaps of mortar told of repairs in progress. 
Then he unlocked a door, and traversed a passage leading to 
a small matted chamber, which bore signs of recent occupa- 
tion. Here he placed a chair for her. “ Madame looks 
fatigued,"^ he said, respectfully; “may I send for .refresh- 
ments, or at least for some wine?^' 

She shook her head. 


GENEVIEVE. 


37 

No, monsieur, she said. “ I thank your courtesy; but 
I can not eat or drink until I have heard from you that which 
I want to know. The sight of that mourning garb has alarmed 
me. It can not — no, it can not be — that Monsieur le Due 
— she paused, and looked at him inquiringly. 

“ Monsieur le Due lives, madame: but he is in deep sor- 
row.^’ 

His son?’^ 

“ No, madame. Of Monsieur de Chevres we never speak; 
and we have not for a long time heard anything about him. 
The grief of my lord, and of all his household, is for his 
nephew, the brave young man who was to him as a son. Our 
grief, madame, will be yours also when you hear that it is for 
Monsieur de Sercourt. But madame is faint — ah! what shall 
I do, madame is going to be ill, and not a woman in the 
house Frightened out of his self-possession by the deathly 
paleness of -her face, and the prospect of a catastrophe with 
which he knew not how to deal, M. d^Houditot stood looking 
at her in the silence of utter consternation. 

“ Do not fear, monsieur, said she, with a great effort. “ I 
shall not faint. Only tell me quickly, and tell me all — is he 
dead?^" 

“ Worse than that, madame, he is murdered V’ 

Mme. Monteres sat still and made no sign. True to her 
word, she did not faint; but she looked like one stricken for 
death. Only a half -articulate “ How?’’ moved M. d^Houditot 
at last to continue his story. 

‘‘We were all engaged in the chase, he said. “ Madame 
is aware that the country around the chateau is a desert, and 
very wild. Monsieur de Sercourt, as was too much his habit, 
wandered to a distance from the rest, accompanied only by his 
page, who never left him. The boy^s story is that they lost 
their way in the desert, and, growing weary, dismounted to 
take some refreshments which he had brought with him, know- 
ing his lord^s fancy for solitude, and his custom of separating 
from the company. While they were thus engaged, a band of 
wild-looking men, with shaggy hair and leathern belts and 
jerkins, darted out from behind a rock and seized their horses. 
Of course, though the lad did not know it, they were smug- 
glers— saunters;^ of whom a desperate band has its 

* The cruel and oppressive gdbelle brought into existence throughout 
the country organized bands of smugglers of salt, called /awa; sauniers. 
Exasperated by barbarous punishments, and largely recruited from the 
ranks of the ordinary criminal classes, they eventually became desper- 
ate robbers, and often murderers, the terror of society, 


38 GENT.VIEVE. 

head-quarters in that desert. Monsieur de Sercourt expostu- 
lated with them; blows followed words, and a struggle ensued, 
of which the poor boy could tell but little, save that a gigantic 
ruffian threw him down, and was about to strangle him with 
his leathern belt when Monsieur de Sercourt dragged him off, 
telling Henri to run for his life, and to report what had hap- 
pened to the duke. This he did, arriving at the chateau more 
dead than alive. Our people say he ought rather to have d|ied 
with his lord; but what would you have? He is only a child, 
so to speak; and life is sweet. 

Mme. Mon teres took in every word of this terrible story; 
and yet, strange to say, it did not greatly move her; it seemed 
to her as if she was listening to something which had happened 
long — very long — ago. Her mind remained sufficiently calm 
to weigh dispassionately all the circumstances of the case, to 
doubt, to question, even to hope. 

“ It appears to me,^^ she began, in a changed, faint voice, 
which, however, gathered strength as she proceeded — “ it ap- 
pears to me that Monsieur le Due has been premature in sur- 
rending hope. The faux sauniers might' spare his life, in 
hope of a rich ransom, or at least of pardon. 

M. d^Houditot looked at her curiously, touched by a vague 
alarm. He thought her eyes had -a strange expression, nor 
did he like the color of her face. Still, her words were so 
quiet and reasonable that he could not believe there was much 
amiss. He answered: 

Ah, madame, if that had been the case, we should have 
discovered it before this. He would have contrived to send a 
message or a token— but the truth is those desperate villains 
would never have let him live for an hour. They know too 
well that for them there could be no making of terms, no 
bargaining for life, not to say for reward; for those gangs of 
faux sauniers do not contain a man who has not earned ten 
times over, not the gallows, but the wheel. Even if Monsieur 
de Sercourt, with their knives at his throat, had sworn on the 
crucifix to procure them all a free pardon, they are not the 
fools to trust an extorted oath like that, and put their heads 
in the lion’s mouth. 

Have any arrests been made? Has Monsieur le Due taken 
measures to discover and capture them?” asked Mme. Mon- 
teres, still with the same unnatural calmness. It was char- 
acteristic of the times that she expected such interference from 
the duke, not from the king or his government. 

“ All has been done, madame^ that it was in the power of 
man to do. Armed bands have scoured the country in every 


GEN-EVIEVE. 


39 


direction. Not a rood of ground has been left unsearched. 
Butj in truth, these faux sauniers seem scarcely mortal. They 
come, one knows not whence; they go, one knows not whither. 
Like their father the devil — to whom no doubt they have sold 
their souls — they can make themselves visible or not, as they 
please. Over and above this compact with the Evil One — 
which no one doubts — it is whispered they are in league with 
the dark powers and spirits which have haunted those desert 
places since the old heathen times. These are things one does 
not speak of, but which are there all the same. Without 
doubt, too, they have a secret understanding with the peas- 
antry, and especially with the charcoal-burners, who give them 
information, and, when necessary, conceal them in their huts.^^ 

“ But Monsieur le Due will not abandon the quest until he 
has ascertained the truth?'^ Mme. Monteres asked, or indeed 
rather asserted, as something of which she was quite confi- 
dent. 

“ Certainly madame, he will not abandon the quest. But 
that is a mournful quest, in which we only hope to find the 
end of hope. By the desire of monseigneur — who considers 
the fact of the murder beyond all doubt — we have all put on 
mourning. Every possible respect has been paid to the mem- 
ory of Monsieur de Sercourt, who was the delight and the pride 
of the whole household, from Monsieur le Due himself to the 
lowest valet. Monsieur le Due is spending quite a fortune 
upon masses for his soul.^^ 

“Ah! but he was a Protestant. 

“ True, madame; he belonged to the religion,* like his fa- 
ther before him. But it was currently reported among us that 
he was about to become a Catholic; and we may surely believe 
that he was one already in intention. The good God will un- 
derstand that it was through no fault of his that he could not 
have the sacraments — But madame must permit me to fetch 
some wine for her — madame is ill. 

“ 1 am not ill, monsieur. As you have said, the good God 
will understand, she went on, in a quiet, dreamy voice, as if 
speaking to herself. “ 1 can trust Edouard with Him. He 
will not send him away from His presence because at the last 
hour there chanced to be no priest within call. How clear 
everything seems growing to me now! It is strange!'^ After 
a short pause, she resumed: “But 1 must go, monsieur. I 
have to tell all this to my daughter. I fear she will be greatly 

^ So the Keformed Religion was often called by the Catholics. 


40 


GENEVIEVE. 


troubled; she thought so much of Monsieur de Sercourt. I 
am not much troubled. I must try to comfort her.^^ 

“ Madame will pardon me, but she looks quite unable for 
the walk, and ought not to attempt it,^’ M. d^Houditot re- 
monstrated. 

‘‘ Oh, no; 1 am strong enough. I am not ill, nor even 
troubled. It is best I should go home. Farewell, monsieur, 
I thank you for your courtesy. 

She rose, gave her hand to M. d’Houditot, and moved to- 
ward the door. He saw that she walked feebly, and not too 
steadily, and following her, he offered his arih. She per- 
mitted him to conduct her across the court, but would not ac- 
cept his escort any further, although, alarmed by her appear- 
ance and manner, he pressed it upon her. She said she felt 
quite well, and would rather be left alone. 

It seemed as if the appalling news she had heard had only 
as yet reached her understanding, not her heart. She fully 
comprehended it — could have repeated its every detail without 
missing a single particular; but she remained inexplicably 
calm under what would have given her yesterday the keenest 
anguish. It was all like a dream — and not even a painful 
dream — to her. Whac she felt was not so much the numbness 
that follows a blow as the rest that follows the cessation of a 
pain. She seemed to be lifted suddenly into the clear serene 
of the upper air, above the stormy wind and tempest. All 
was right — all was well. It was well with her husband, with 
Edouard, with herself — it would be well with Genevieve also. 
Why should she be troubled? Nay, what was there to be 
troubled about? 

True, there was Genevieve. Genevieve would weep and 
mourn, and make sore lamentation for the playfellow of her 
childhood. But God would comfort her. She did not doubt 
it in the least; but still she thought she ought to pray to Him 
to do it. Was not this a church that she was passing — a little 
quiet church with its modest door wide open, that poor people 
might go in and pray? A few poor women were there already, 
kneeling on the stone floor, with their market-baskets laid 
down beside them. Could they lay down burdens of another 
kind as easily? 

Slowly and feebly the dark-robed figure passed in. Mme. 
Monteres instinctively kept a little apart from the others, and 
found a quiet, solitary place, where she bent her weary knees 
and still more weary head in the attitude of prayer. But her 
heart was no longer weary now — God had given her rest; was 
it the prelude and the foretaste of a deeper rest at hand? 


GENEVIEVE. 


41 


There was no service at that hour in the little church; but 
its almost empty aisles were filled with the solemn tones of 
the organ, touched by a not unskillful hand. Softly and 
sweetly did they fall on the half-conscious ear of Mme. Mon- 
teres. Words of prayer did not come to her readily. She 
tried some of the many collects and other forms that she knew 
by heart, but she could recall none of them accurately. Then 
she endeavored, in her own words, to frame the petitions she 
wished to offer, but this also proved a fruitless effort. Still 
there was no sense of failure, no consciousness of regret or 
pain. The sweet tones of the music that floated around her 
seemed to be uttering for her that which she had no power to 
utter for herself: “ Casting all your care upon Him, for He 
careth for you;*^ or, better still, “ 1 cast all my care upon 
Thee, for Thou carest for me. 

Gradually the organa’s voice grew low and faint, the words, 
the thoughts it had suggested, vanished utterly; the little 
church, with its bare walls and tawdry altar, grew dark around 
her, and Mme. Monteres knew no more. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE HOTEL DIEU. 

E’en that must leave me— that still face, by all my tears unmoved. 

Take me from this dark world with thee. 

Hemans. 

How that long day wore by with Genevieve in her lonely 
room, those only can guess who have known similar anxiety. 
Even in a great city of the present day the prolonged absence 
of a person as unprotected as Mme. Monteres would suggest 
terrible possibilities; and the Paris of the Fronde was not a. 
great city of the present day. There was little security for 
life or property; there was no organized system of general 
communication. Solitary atoms of humanity, swept into the 
vortex, were swallowed up every day in that great seething 
mass of confusion and corruption ; and who could ever trace 
them — who would even care to make the attempt? It would 
be as easy to track a missing ship in mid-ocean. 

At last Genevieve could no longer bear alone the heavy bur- 
den of her fears. Though she had a salutary dread of her 
loud-tongued landlady, she ventured, under the pressure of a 
still more terrible dread, to invade her premises. The time 
was unfortunate; for Widow Manin had that day upon her 
hands the very unsual labor of a general wash. Genevieve 


42 


GENEVIEVE. 


found her bending over a steaming tub, and giving at the 
same time parenthetical replies to a neighbor who had come 
in upon some household errand. She received the timid greet- 
ing of her young lodger with scant ceremony, and without in- 
termitting her labors, or even turning her head. 

But Genevieve was already well aware of her dislike, and 
far too miserable to care for it just then. She explained 
briefly that her mother had gone out to the market very early, 
and had not yet returned, though it was now past noon — long 
past, she thought. What ought she to do? And oh, what 
did Widow Manin think could possibly have happened? 

Widow Manin took a garment from the seething mass before 
her, wrung it out vigorously, and hung it up to dry. Then, 
at last, with the soap still glistening on her brawny arms, she 
condescended to turn round, and to face her trembling ques- 
tioner. 

“ There are many things that could have happened, very 
possibly, and very probably too, my fine demoiselle,^’ she an- 
swered. “ Your mother may have been run over, and killed, 
by one of those new coaches the great folk are setting up, en- 
dangering the lives and limbs of honest people whom God 
made, as much as He made ladies and gentlemen. Or she 
may, quite simply, have lost her way; and not having any 
great things of a head, as far as 1 ever saw, she may wander 
about until dooms-day. Or she may have been murdered — or 
robbed, perhaps, at the best. Ho you know if she had any 
money about her; or, possibly, anything that could be turned 
into money?” inquired the widow, with a look of sharp curi- 
osity. 

Scared by the terrible possibilities suggested, and heedless of 
all but her mother’s danger, Genevieve answered, with more 
candor than prudence, “ She had only a few sous with her; 
but then I know she had also a valuable ring. ” 

“ Then I wish you may ever see it again. It, or her either. 
That is all I have to say.” 

Genevieve sunk, faint and trembling, on the nearest seat; 
while the other woman, who looked kind, threw in a word of 
comfort. 

“ Come, come. Mademoiselle Manin,* don’t take the heart 
out of the poor young thing that way! After all, a thousand 
things may have happened to detain the mother; and she may 
come back safe and well, with the help of the good God and 

* Married women of Widow Manin ’s rank, and indeed much higher 
in social position, were then called mademoiselle, not madame. 


GENEVIEVE. 


43 


our Lady. If I were you, ma'amselle, I would just go back 
and say a prayer for her; for 1 see nothing else you can do.^’ 

“I can go to look for her,^^ came faintly from the white 
lips of Genevieve. 

‘‘ Where would yon look, I wonder? God help you for such 
folly, poor child! There would only be two lost, in place of 
one. And in the meantime the mother might return, and find 
no one to welcome her. It might be a different thing if a 
strong man, who knew the city, were to try what he could do. 
Mademoiselle Manin, that son of thine is as good-natured a lad 
as ever broke bread; and, for the sake of a poor young lady 
who is dying of fright, he might, when he comes back from 
work — 

Neither the kind-hearted neighbor nor the terrified girl was 
prepared for the" burst of anger this suggestion evoked. Pur- 
ple with rage and excitement, the widow recommended her 
neighbor to attend to her own affairs; and assured ‘‘ the young 
lady ^ that honest lads had something better to do than to run 
about the city upon their errands, especially if they were to be 
treated afterward as though they were the dust beneath their 
feet, and not good enough for that. “ Honest lads had their 
mothers to mind, who toiled and starved and slaved for them, 
and often wanted the bit and sup themselves, that they might 
not know what want meant. If they understood so little of 
their duty as to make fools of themselves, running after 
demoiselles with yellow hair and blue eyes, and hands that 
were white enough, to be sure, because they had never done a 
decent day^s work — at least their mothers understood theirs 
too well to allow it. All the more, when there was not even 
money in the case, but pride and poverty both together, and 
my lady^s rings and trinkets having to be thrown into the pot 
an, feu, to keep it on the boil.'’^ This harangue was seasoned 
with a liberal supply of the phraseology learned at the market, 
which in England would have been styled Billingsgate. Hav- 
ing relieved her mind by its delivery. Widow Manin returned 
with renewed energy to her wash-tub; while the other woman 
threw in some feeble remonstrances, and Genevieve, thorough- 
ly frightened, slipped out of the room. 

Wrapping a shawl around her, she went out, and soon 
reached the market, where the friendly Babet told her all she 
knew, and gave her the basket, expressing much surprise that 
the lady had not returned to claim it. Then she went to the 
church her mother usually attended, but with no better suc- 
cess. Weary, hopeless, and discouraged, she returned home; 
if that could be called home where there was no familiar face 


44 


GENEVIETE. 


or voice to welcome her. Night was falling now; the cold 
drizzling rain had recommenced, and nothing could well be 
more dreary than the bare, fireless room where hour after 
hour she sat and waited. 

When the darkness increased, she lighted the little oil-lamp, 
partly because it made her feel somewhat less lonely, partly 
that her mother, if returning, might see the friendly light. 

She heard in the room beneath her the sound of steps and 
voices, indicating that Mathieu Manin had returned from his 
work; and she noticed that the voices were much , louder than 
usual; ap23arently mother and son were engaged in an angry 
altercation. After what had passed, Genevieve could not ask 
the help of Mathieu, as under other circumstances she might 
perhaps have done. At last she heard him go out again, evi- 
dently in a very bad humor, for he flung the door noisily to 
behind him. Her mother’s words passed idly through her 
mind, “ If Mathieu spends his evenings at the wine-shop. 
Widow Manin has no one but herself to blame for it.” But 
they were only interesting to her because they. were her moth- 
er’s words. How unutterably she longed to hear that voice, 
to see that face again! 

Sleep, for her, was out of the question; she did not even 
undress. She lay down, indeed, for a little while, but the 
restless desire of misery for change of posture soon -made her 
rise again, and pace to and fro in the narrow bounds of the 
little room. At last, however, fatigue and sorrow overcame 
her, and near the dawn of the wintery morning she threw her- 
self once more on the bed, and from utter exhaustion fell into 
a kind of slumber. 

She was roused by steps and voices in the passage outside 
her door. Springing up, she ran to open it, hoping and fear- 
ing she knew not what. Widow Manin, Mathieu, and a 
stranger, were there; and, as it seemed to the bewildered 
Genevieve, they all began to speak together. She looked pite- 
ously from one to the other, as if imploring some explanation 
which she could understand. Then Mathieu pushed his moth- 
er aside with an air of authority she had never seen him as- 
sume before, and, coming forward respectfully, addressed her, 
“ There is bad news for ma’amselle, l am sorry to say. Ma- 
dame your mother is ill; she has been taken to the Hotel 
Dieu. This good man,” indicating the stranger, “ is a porter 
belonging to the hotel, and has been sent to fetch ma’amselle 
to her.”. 

Genevieve grew white to the lips, and trembled like an 
aspen leaf; she looked as though she would have fallen. 


GENEVIEVE. 


45 


“ Come, come, ma^amsello,’^ said Widow Manin, with a 
roughness which for once proved really serviceable, “ if you 
are going to faint away like a fine lady, you will never see your 
mother alive again/’ 

Genevieve shivered at the cruel words, but, for all that, they 
gave her strength, and she turned to go with her guide. 

Mathieu glanced round the room, and, espying a soft warm 
shawl, he took it up, and wrapped it around the trembling 
girl. Then he drew her arm within his, and signed to the 
porter of the Hotel Dieu to lead the way. 

Widow Manin followed them in silence to the door of the 
house, then she cried out angrily, “ Mathieu!” 

‘‘Ho not trouble thyself about my dinner, mother,” said 
he, looking back. “ I may not be home for it.” 

“ Mathieu! — I say, Mathieu!” the words came out quick 
and sharp, like pistol-shots. “ Take that girTs arm from 
thine, and come back this moment, or else never look in thy 
mother’s face again. ” 

But Mathieu’ s blood was up now as well as his mother’s, 
and he answered with a coolness more provoking than any^ 
outburst of passion, “ That last is as you please, my good 
mother.” 

Genevieve scarcely noticed this passage of arms, so intense 
was her absorption in the one thought that filled her soul. 
Her mother was ill — ill alone in a strange place and among 
strange faces. She needed her child; and the moments seemed 
like hours until her child could stand by her side. Mathieu’s 
long strides could scarcely keep pace with the little feet of 
Genevieve, urged as they were by fear, and hope, and love. 
Neither spoke; except that at first Mathieu put a question or 
two to the porter, in the hope of gaining some information for 
Genevieve. But the man was both stupid and indifferent; he 
could only tell that he had been given the address, and ordered 
to fetch mademoiselle at once, as her mother was very ill and 
wished to see her. 

At last they reached the gates of that “ House of God ” 
where, for His sake. His poor and sick were received and 
tended, often — alas!— very carelessly and indifferently. Here 
Mathieu was refused admittance, and the silent, trembling 
Genevieve was received by an official in uniform, who gave her 
in charge to a Sister of St. Vincent de Paul.,. The sister was 
kind, her face was refined and liandsome, though slightly 
marked with small-pox. She whispered, as she led her charge 
through the gloomy, echoing corridor, “ Be of good courage, 
my ch>id, your mother lives yet. ” 


46 


GENEVIEVE. 


Presently they entered a great hall, filled or rather crowded 
with beds, each bed containing two, or even three, miserable 
sufferers. Instinctively Genevieve shrunk back, and clung to 
her guide, but the horrible sights and sounds pierced even the 
absorption of her agony. The place seemed alive with writh- 
ing forms and ghastly faces, some gazing at her with a curi- 
osity whi(}h even pain and sickness could not quell, others 
wrapped in their own sufferings, and impervious to every out- 
ward impression. Cries and groans filled the air, though now 
and then they were drowned by the shouts and songs of some 
patient in violent delirium. Was it in this horrible place that 
her mother — her refined, gentle mother — was lying ill, per- 
haps dying? 

“ Keep your eyes on the ground, my child, said the 
friendly sister. ‘‘ See and hear as little as you can. We shall 
soon reach the place now. We saw your mother was not like 
the others, so we gave her a bed for herself, alone, and in a 
quiet corner. 

They came at last to the “ quiet corner, from which a 
priest was Just turning slowly away. His errand was not 
doubtful; for he was preceded by a boy carrying a bell, while 
an old acolyte followed, bearing the vessels used in the solemn 
service he had just concluded. Genevieve understood all but 
too well; but she could not speak. With no visible sign of 
emotion, save a slight shiver, she advanced to the humble 
couch on which her mother lay. 

So white and death-like was the dear face — the face that 
filled all the world for her — that she did not doubt that death 
itself was present there; and a great and bitter cry broke from 
her desolate heart — “ Mother! — mother 

Then once more the dim eyes unclosed; and the failing 
voice murmured, in faint and broken accents, the last words 
that lingered in the mind of the dying as earth and all its in- 
terests faded from her: “ He careth for you — careth for — my 
child!’’ 

Genevieve bent over and kissed her forehead, then took her 
hand, and felt the feeble fingers close upon hers with that 
dear clasp of the dying which speaks of love that can never 
die. 

The sister stood beside her, and watched. 

In another hour all w^s over. Then the sister drew Gene- 
vieve gently away, saying: Come, my child! She is at rest 
now. It has been a blessed departure; I never knew of one 
more painless or more peaceful.” 


G-ENEVIEVE. 


47 


“ Let me stay!^'’ prayed Genevieve; “ oh, sister, let me stay 
— to the last!^^ 

“ It can not be, my daughter. Wo*must take her'now to 
the room where we lay our dead, to await their final rest. 
You must go home. But you may come and see her once 
again. Come, if you will, to-morrow morning at nine oYlock. ” 

At that moment an imperative voice summoned— “ Sister 
Marguerite, quick! quick 1^^ 

She lingered but to whisper, “ Be comforted, dear child. 
Go home; and when you come to-morrow ask for Sister Mar- 
guerite.'’^ 

Still Genevieve could not go. All she had on earth lay there 
cold and white on that lowly bed. And in a few short hours 
even that would be hers no longer. 

At length ruder voices bade her depart, and ruder hands 
conducted, indeed in the end almost forced, her to the door. 

When she found herself in the street she stood bewildered. 
Everything looked strange to her. Was it years since she trod 
that pavement — entered in by that gate? 

But she was soon forced to move. Passers-by began to 
jostle her, and a litter, with a sick man in it, approached, the 
bearers telling her roughly not to block the way, but to go 
into the hospital herself, if that was what she wanted, as from 
her looks it appeared to be. 

Mechanically, and half in a stupor, she walked on, and, 
gviided perhaps by some instinct, she found her way back to 
the Eue St. Jacques. Knowing nothing better to do, she trod 
its long and weary length, seeming to herself to be walking 
on and on forever. She was not sorry to turn at last into the 
by-street where she lodged, and to find herself at the door of 
the familiar house. 

As usual, it was open; and Widow Manin was standing be- 
fore it, with arms akimbo, and the air of one prepared to do 
battle with all comers. 

“ My mother is dead,^^ said Genevieve, feeling in her 
simplicity as if her sorrow made her kin to all the world, and 
made all the world kin to her. 

But Widow Manin had a sorrow of her own which shut her 
heart, as with bars and bolts of iron, against that of Gene- 
vieve. Had not her only son — that son for whom she lived, 
and for whom in very truth she had toiled like a bond-slave — 
j list assured her defiantly that he would have nothing to do 
'with the excellent partie she had chosen for him, but that he 
meant forthwith to go and marry the penniless and hated 
Genevieve Monteres? Mathieu had gone back to his. work 


48 


GENEVIEVE. 


with bitter wrath and manly determination in his honest 
heart; while his mother remained on guard at home, vowing 
that never again, und(flr any pretext, should Genevieve cross 
her threshold. Mathieu might look for her all over Paris to- 
morrow if he would, and see if he could find her ! 

Still, it was not in human nature — even in coarse and 
angry human nature— to hear Genevieve^s tidings without a 
touch of pity. Widow Manin softened for an instant as she 
answered: “ Well, then, I am sorry for her. She was a good 
woman, as women go in these days.^^ 

But in another moment she had grown hard again. 

“ May I go up to our room?^^ asked Genevieve, timidly, as 
she still stood barring the way. 

“ No, my fine demoiselle, you may not I have had enough 
of you and your doings. I pray of you to seek another lodg- 
ing. Perhaps you may find somewhere else a lad as soft as 
my Mathieu, without a mother like me, who knows how to 
take care of him. 

Genevieve’s sorrowful blue eyes opened to their widest ex- 
tent. She could not comprehend a word of all this. But she 
thought dimly that it was just one of Widow Manin’s not un- 
frequent outbursts of passion, in which she often said much 
but meant little. So she only asked again, very gently, 
though this time with a faint touch of surprise: “ May I not 
go up to our room?” 

“ It is your room no longer. Mademoiselle Genevieve Mon- 
teres. It is wanted for another lodger, who comes to-morrow, 
aud I must clean and arrange it to-day. ” 

“ But, Mademoiselle Manin,” remonstrated Genevieve, 
“ our clothes are there, and our things. ” 

“ Whose things, my grand young lady? Do you know how 
long it is now since your mother paid me a single sou by way 
of rent? When I take all that rubbish and sell it up, as please 
God 1 shall do to-morrow morning, 1 shall barely save myself 
from loss. Not but what,” she added, in a lower tone, as her 
conscience began to prick her uncomfortably — ‘ ‘ not but what 
all the world knows I am an honest woman. If those trifies 
of yours should fetch anything more than what you owe me, 
you shall have it to the last sou. That is, if you choose to 
come for it — to this door, be it understood, for one step be- 
yond it you shall never pass.” 

‘‘ But,” faltered Genevieve, tears for the first time gather- 
ing in her weary eyes, “but I do not choose my mother’s 
things to be sold. I choose to keep them.” 

“ Beggars must not be choosers, my good girl. ; And a 


V 


49 


GENEVIEVE. 

beggar is what you are now, if I am not very much mis- 
taken. 

“ Let me stay here for this night only,^^ pleaded the 
broken-hearted girl, “fori must go back to-morrow to the 
Hotel Dieu, to see my mother.'^ 

“ May I die of an apoplexy, without time to send for a 
priest, if I let you stay for a single hour!^^ said Widow Manin 
aloud ; adding> as she did so, in her own mind, ‘ ‘ Let her stay, 
indeed, for that dolt Mathieu to find her here this evening! 
With that white, sorrowful face of hers, which almost makes 
a fool even of me, in spite of sense and reason! He vrould 
just take her to the church to-morrow morning, in defiance of 
all I could do or say. No, no, ma’amselle,^^ she resumed, 
“ we have had more than enough of grand lodgers here, and 
must ask you to take yourself elsewhere. You hold your head 
so high that no doubt you know fine people enough who will 
be ready to help you. 

“I know no one,^^ said Genevieve^ piteously. “I have 
nowhere to go to.^^ 

“ What is that to me? Go anywhere you like, only out of 
my sight and my son’s. You have brought us trouble enough 
already. He never gave me an ill word or look in his life until 
he saw your face.” 


CHAPTEB VIl. 

HELP IN TIME OF NEED. 

Love can bless 
Even in this crowded loneliness, 

Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, 

Go I thou art naught to us, nor we to thee — away! 

Keble. 

“ I WISH I could die!” thought Genevieve, as she stood 
outside the door so inhospitably closed against her. “ I wish 
I could die. Only not until to-morrow. For to-morrow I am 
going back to the Hotel Dieu. Oh, mother — mother!” A 
few slow and heavy drops fell from her weary eyes. As yet, 
however, they were but few, for she was too utterly stunned 
and bewildered for any outburst of grief. Happily, she did 
not realize as yet the full desolation of her position, and she 
was far indeed from understandiug all its peril. She was 
alone in a city — in a great, wicked, lawless city — without food, 
without money, without shelter. She was weak and helpless 
as a child; yet she was exposed to dangers far more terrible 
than those which would have menaced a forsaken child. Of 


50 


GEKEVIEVE. 


such dangers she knew nothing; but she did know that the 
streets of Paris were very unsafe, especially after dark, and 
that robberies and murders were things of continual occur- 
rence. That, however, was not her first thought, nor was it 
her most pressing fear. She felt more afraid just then of 
encountering Mathieu on his way from work; and of his 
arguing with her, and trying to bring her back against his 
mother ^s will. She did not feel able to contend with any one; 
and, as to facing her formidable landlady, again, she felt she 
could not do it, even to save her life. 

No; she would go back again to the Hotel Dieu, and entreat 
of the people there to let her in. Surely they would not re- 
fuse her. She would not ask for a bed; but perhaps they 
would show her some little spot on the ground, near her 
mother^s resting-place, where she could lie down and keep 
still until the morning, and feel as if all she loved was not so 
very far away. If the porter at the great g,ate would not 
listen to her prayer, she would beg of him to call Sister Mar- 
guerite, who would surely have compassion on her. 

But the Hotel Dieu was far away, and she was very tired 
and weak. She had gone through much excitement and ex- 
ertion that day, and she had not tasted food. Very slowly 
and wearily she retraced her steps along, the Eue St. Jacques, 
which seemed to stretch out before her to an interminable 
length. But it was easier to keep moving than to stand still; 
and even the shadow of a definite purpose lent a little strength 
to her failing feet. So she pursued her way until she reached 
the Quartier St. Germain; and there, at length, she stopped, 
in dire bewilderment and perplexity. Whither was she to go 
next? Which turn was she to take? Her memory seemed a 
blank; all that she could recall was that in going to and 
coming from the Hotel Dieu she had somewhere crossed a 
bridge — “ Petit Pont she thought she heard Mathieu call it. 
But instead of going straight forward, as she ought to have 
done, she turned to the left, and, wandering along beneath 
the gloomy walls of the Sorbonne, began to realize that she 
had lost herself completely. She was afraid to ask for direc- 
tions from the passers-by; some of them looked so rough and 
forbidding — all of them so busy. 

It could not have been late in the afternoon, yet she fancied 
that the light of the dim November day seemed already be- 
ginning to fail. It was horrible to think of being there all 
alone in the dark. What was she to do if the night overtook 
her? She thought the Hotel Dieu must still be very far off; 
she feared she would never be able to reach it. Besides, her 


GENEVIEVE. 


51 


head was growing dizzy and confused; hunger and weariness 
were beginning to do their work upon her. 

Still she walked on, growing every moment weaker and 
more bewildered. By this time she had lost all trace of her 
way, and almost all hope of ever finding it again. There 
were no street lamps in those days; but by and by an occa- 
sional light began to appear in a shop or a dwelling-house; 
and she passed some public building — she knew not what — 
which had lanterns hung up before it. These signs of ap- 
proaching darkness filled her with terror. 

Wandering aimlessly onward, she found herself at last be- 
fore the door of a great church. It was a “ noble and beau- 
tiful house,” wherein men might fitly praise the living God. 
Stately and graceful columns rose each above the other in a 
double tier, and two massive towers kept watch over the 
whole. Genevieve, weary as she- was, looked about her with a 
faint wonder. She knew that she had never been here before. 
Ill the open space before the church well-dressed .persons, 
some of them attended by servants, were passing to and fro. 
There were riders, too, upon handsome horses; and occasion- 
ally a closed litter with ladies in it. She saw one coach — a 
great lumbering machine, like a room on wheels, drawn by 
four horses. But coaches were still rare, and only used upon 
special occasions. 

Feeling her exhaustion increase, she sat down on the steps 
of the church to rest and if possible to think. But she was 
’allowed to do neither, for an official, with a badge on his coat 
and a stall in his hand, sternly bade her begone, saying that 
was no place for beggars. 

She rose and turned wearily away, but turned back again to 
ask the name of the church. Why she did this she could not 
have told; it was probably from the instinctive desire to re- 
lieve her loneliness by even a moment’s conversation. 

“ You must be a stranger,” was the answer, “ or you would 
know St. Sulpice.” ' 

“I am a stranger,” said Genevieve, piteously. “I have 
not even a place to lodge in, or a sou to buy a bit of bread.” 

“Just as I thought — a beggar. Well then, go and beg 
from some of the fine folk yonder. They have plenty of 
money, and there are those among them ready enough to 
throw a little to any one who asks them. ” 

Every nerve in the frame of Genevieve, every instinct in 
her soul, revolted against this suggestion. Yet what was she 
to do? She might not even lie down in peace on the threshold 
of God’s house, and die. She must find some resting-place 


62 


GENEVIEVE. 


for her weary limbs, and some food, or she would faint. So 
she conquered her repugnance, came forward a little out of 
the shadow of the church, and stood watching her oppor- 
tunity. But the passers-by did not look propitious or prom- 
ising. To some of them she could not have spoken even to 
save her life: there was that in their faces that inspired her 
with absolute terror. Others seemed so busy, and in such a 
hurry, that she could not summon up courage to stop them. 
At last she noticed a lady who, she thought, looked rather 
kind; she was leaning on the arm of a gentleman, and pre- 
ceded by a servant carrying a lantern. Advancing timidly, 
she proffered her faltering prayer for a few sous to buy bread 
and a night^s lodging. The lady stopped, and looked doubt- 
ful, but the gentleman interposed, and roughly bade her be- 
gone, asking “ Jacques ^^what he was good for if he could not 
save his mistress from such annoyances. 

Abashed by this repulse, she retired quickly into the shadow 
of the phurch, and it was some minutes before she could re- 
cover her courage sufficiently to make a second attempt. This 
time she tried an old gentleman, whose response was not un- 
kindly; he even sought for his purse, but found he had left it 
at home for fear of thieves, so he passed on with a compas- 
sionate “ God help thee, poor child ' 

The kind words nearly finished what sorrow, fatigue, and 
hunger had begun. Genevieve trembled from head to foot, 
and her tears came quickly. No longer able to stand, she 
sunk down once more on the steps of the church, beside one 
of the slender, beautiful pillars which adorn its stately fa 9 ade. 

Utterly worn out, she was already falling into a kind of 
exhausted sleep — or, perhaps, stupor — when she was aroused 
by a voice asking, not unkindly, “ What art thou doing here, 
my child 

She started up in alarm, thinking it was her former ac- 
quaintance, the beadle. 

“ Oh, sir,"’ she pleaded, “ let me stay here and rest just for 
a little. I can go no further, I am so tired, and indeed 1 tried 
t'O beg, but no one would give me anything. ” 

‘‘ Hast thou then been begging?” There was' surprise, and 
even a little reproach, in the tone, as if the speaker knew that 
the position was for her unbecoming,' and even degrading. 
She looked up and saw him very clearly in the light of the 
lamp that hung beside the pillar. He was no beadle, but un- 
mistakably a gentleman, as we understand the word. His 
dress was sober and far from costly — such a dress as might 
have been worn by a lawyer, a pliysician, a doctor of the Sor- 


GENEVIEVE. 


53 


bonne, or by a recluse who had withdrawn .from the world, 
though without entering, any ecclesiastical order. The face, 
which was not shaded by the usual 'perruque, looked worn and 
sad, and bore traces of recent sickness and suffering; yet it 
had a quite singular expession of power, which almost awed 
her. She felt his question as if it had been a rebuke uttered 
by the voice of authority. 

“ I could not help it, monsieur, she faltered, “ I had 
nothing to eat, and nowhere to go.-’^ 

“ Nowhere to go — poor child Something in the tone of 

these words made Genevieve lose her fear of him. She drew 
a little nearer, and looked up appealingly in his face; while 
he, bending over her his massive brow, returned her look with 
evident interest. “ And so beautiful he murmured as if to 
himself. And then aloud, “ But where are your parents?^ ^ 
“Ah, monsieur, my parents are both dead. My father died 
long ago, in our old home, and then my mother and I came to 
Paris. To-day — only to-day — my mother died in the Hotel 
Dieu.^^ 

“ But have you no home, no friends, in the city?^^ 

“ None, monsieur. The woman we lodged with was un- 
kind, and turned me out to-day. I do not know what to do 
now. I wish I could die. Only not to-night, fpr to-morrow 
I must go back again to the Hotel Dieu. They said they 
would let me see my mother. It would break my heart if — if 
I never saw her again. Monsieur, for the love of God, will 
you give me shelter for one night, that 1 may go back to- 
morrow to the Hotel Dieu, and see my mother’s face once 
more before they bury her? After that, I do not care what 
becomes of me. It does not matter to any one. ” 

“Yes, my child, it does. It matters to God, to yourself, 
and to me. But first you shall have the shelter y6u ask for. 
Come with me.” 

She obeyed, though with slow and tottering footsteps. Her 
guide, perceiving her weakness, turned toward her with a 
courteous gesture and offered her the support of his arm, as 
he might have done to any lady. She accepted it at once, and 
clung to him trustfully, as if he had been the dear dead father 
of whom, in some mysterious way, he reminded her; not cer- 
tainly from any similarity of feature, but perhajis from the 
look of suffering in his face, and the grave, gentle dignity of 
his manner. While they traversed a street or two neither 
spoke; except that he said once, as she seemed to falter, 
“ Courage, my child! we have not far to go.” 

They soon reached the door of a large, though plain-looking 


54 


GENEVIEVE. 


house, at which her conductor knocked. A priest appeared 
presently; and to him he said a few words in a low voice, un- 
heard by Genevieve. 

But she heard the answer, which was spoken with an air of 
deference. “ Certainly, monsieur, certainly. Be pleased to 
come in.^^ 

They entered a small, bare parlor, where Genevieve quickly 
sunk on the nearest seat. The priest murmured something 
about “ a poor place, and said he would call old Mariette, 
the only woman in the house. He hoped monsieur would 
excuse — 

‘‘It is I who should excuse myself to you,^^ said the 
stranger, with grave courtesy. “ My apology is your own 
character for charity and good works, which is well known to 
me, although I am unknown to you. It has led me to bring 
you this poor child, whom I found wandering in the street. 
She is quite unfit to go further, even were there any place 
where she would be more sure of a kind reception. Give her 
shelter, I pray of you, for to-night; and to-morrow I will send 
sqme one to supply her wants, and to spare you further 
trouble. It is a work which will need the heart and hand of 
a woman. 

“ I willingly undertake the charge, monsieur; nay, I thank 
you for trusting me with it. Shall not this poor child also be 
allowed to thank her benefactor 

“ That needs not; but you, from whom I am soliciting a 
favor, have the right to a proof of my good faith. 

At a . slight sign, unnoticed by the weary Genevieve, the 
priest followed him to the door, coming back presently with a 
perplexed but cheerful face. “ Instead of his name he gives 
me his gold,^^ he said half to himself and half to Genevieve. 
“ Well, my child, thou canst pray for him all the same, as 
God^s minlfeter, sent to help thee in thy need. Nay, do not 
try to speak; already thou art half dead with fatigue. Rest 
where thou art for the present; I will bring thee some warm 
soup, and then Mariette shall take thee in charge.'’^ 

“ But tell me, is he gone? Shall not I see liim any more? 
And I never thanked him,'"^ said Genevieve, remorsefully. 

“ Thank God instead. Now rest thee and be still ; I go to 
fetch Mariette, and the soup.’’^ 

At first Genevieve slept, from utter exhaustion, on the clean 
though far from luxurious couch to which the priest^s servant 
conducted her. But the morning found her hot and feverish, 
tossing wearily from side to side, unable to rest, and yet 
utterly unfit to rise. Many days of sickness and weakness 


GENEVIEVE. 


55 


followed, leaving her helpless and passive in tlie kind 1 lands 
into which she had fallen. It was long before she was able to 
take up again the burden of her life. But she was conscious 
throughout of the almost constant presence beside her bed of 
a brisk, decided, elderly woman, with kind, motherly ways, 
whom she used to call “ mademoiselle,''^ until requested by 
herself to use her Christian name, Euphemie. Under Eu- 
phemie^s competent superintendence, Mariette ministered to 
her wants, and the old priest visited her frequently. She 
called him Pere Antoine, as she heard Mariette and Euphemie 
do; and that was all she knew, or for the present cared to 
know, about her surroundings. Thus the days and weeks 
went by. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FACING LIFE TgAIN. 

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, 

Our neighbor and our work farewell, 

Nor strive to wind ourselves too high, 

For sinful man beneath the sky. 

Keble. 

Genevieve-'s indifference passed away with her weakness; 
but returning strength brought with it many sad and some 
anxious thoughts. “ Dear Euphemie,^" she pleaded one morn- 
ing, “ you see I am better — so much better. Will you not tell 
me now some of the things I want to know?"^ 

She lay in the little matted parlor into which she had been 
brought on that first sorrowful night. A simple but com- 
fortable couch had been placed for her there, as being better 
suited to an invalid than the dark cellar where Mariette slept, 
and where she had passed her first night. 

Euphemie rose, and so shifted the blind that the welcome 
winter sunshine might fill the room without incommoding the 
patient. Then, resuming her seat and her knitting, she an- 
swered: “ My dear child, I will tell you willingly. What is it 
you want to know?^^ 

‘‘ First — about my mother. I did not speak of her before. 
But I am thinking of her always. 

“ Think of her, then, as with God; released from the cares 
and sorrows of this miserable world. Such thoughts will bring 
you comfort. 

“ I know. But I am troubled because I could not go back 
to the Hotel Dieu. There was not one who loved her to 
follow her to her grave, or even to see where they laid her — 


56 


GEJSfEVlEVE. 


The last words died away in the qnick^ hysterical sobs of 
weakness. 

The nurse ,spoke firmly, and even with a little air of stern- 
ness: “ Calm yourself, my child. 1 must not talk with you 
about anything which makes you weep. For you are not yet 
strong enough to weep without doing yourself harm. But if 
you will be wise and brave, and listen to me quietly without 
tears, I will tell you something you will be glad to know."’"’ 

“ Oh, tell me, dear Euphemie. Indeed I will be calm. 

“ 111 as you were when I came here to nurse you, you were 
yet able to give me your name when asked for it — Genevieve 
Monteres. We knew already, from what you said, that your 
mother had just died in the Hotel I)ieu. So, although we 
were not in time for the burial, we were able to identify the 
grave, over which we have placed a simple cross. When you 
are strong enough you can go to see it.'’^ 

“Oh, how good! — how kind 

“Wait; there is more to tell you. A lady, who has taken 
the robe of a Sister of St. Vincent de Paul in order to work 
among the sick poor, attended your mother, and was much 
drawn to her and to you. She inquired for you with great 
interest, and gave me a ring for you, which she said was the 
only thing of value found upon the person of Madame Mon- 
teres. 

“ The ring of Edouard! I am so glad! Will you'not give 
it to me, dear Euphemie?^ ^ 

Euphemie looked at her keenly, and perhaps with a little 
womanly curiosity. Who was this Edouard? But she only 
said: “ Child, I do not carry jewels of value about with me in 
my pocket. I have the ring in safe keeping, and under lock 
and key. But I will . bring it to you whenever you wish to 
have it."’"’ 

Genevieve was satisfied. She had started up in her eager- 
ness, but now she lay back again upon her pillow, thinking. 
Her next words were in a changed tone, and about another 
subject. 

“You have been very good to me, dear Euphemie; I do 
not know how to thank you.'’^ 

“ Child, I have only done my duty, and followed my calling, 
which is to nurse the sick. If I were not nursing you, I should 
be nursing some one else. 

“ Every one has been very good to me; you and Mariette, 
and Pere Antoine, and the surgeon. But what I want you to 
tell me, dear Euphemie, is this — Where do the soup, and the 
wine, and all the medicines I have to take come from?’' 


GENEVIEV|]. 57 

Eupheniie smiled a Jittle. 

“ I thought you would be asking that some of these days/^ 
she said. “I have no great opinion of those who go on eating 
and drinking, and sleeping in good beds, without ever troubling 
themselves to think whei*e anything comes from.^^ 

“ But I want very much to know/" pleaded Genevieve, the 
crimson flush of eagerness suffusing her pale face; “ please 
tell me."" 

“ 1 can tell you little more than what, if you have thought 
seriously about the matter, you have no doubt suspected al- 
ready. The same hand that brought you here has supplied 
your every want from that day to this."" 

“ Euphemie, who is hef ;Tell me that I may pray for 
him."" 

“ Do you not already do that?"" 

“ Of course; but 1 want to pray for him by name."" 

‘‘ Since that is not his wish, it may not be. Nor should you 
try to discover what he desires to conceal. You seem to have 
had a very careful education, and kll that I have seen in you 
makes me think you a well-bred, high-minded demoiselle. So 
you will accept what has been done for you in a right and be- 
coming spirit."" 

“Yes, yes, I will not ask again. Only promise me one 
thing, dear Euphemie. If I do not get well — if, instead, 1 
grow worSe, and am like to die, then, and only then — you will 
ask him to come to me, and to let me see his face once more."" 

“ Chut, chut. Mademoiselle Genevieve! I shall have no oc- 
casion to ask him anything so foolish. Eouse yourself, my 
dear, and do not give way to idle fancies. You are not in the 
least likely to die; on the other hand, you are getting well. 
We shall have you up to-morrow, 1 expect, and sitting in this 
fauteuil for a little change."" 

“ And when 1 get well what is to become of me?"" 

“ Come now, that is a sensible question. Have you any rel- 
atives? But I rather suspect, from certain circumstances 1 
have noticed, that you have not. "" 

“You are right,"" Genevieve acquiesced, sadly. “I had 
only my mother, and she is gone. "" And, in spite of her re- 
straining will, two large tears stole from under the pale, half- 
closed eyelids. 

Euphemie hesitated a moment before she said: “ You have 
mentioned a certain Monsieur Edouard in connection with the 
ring. Probably he also is with the dead? Was he your 
brother, or perhaps your cousin?"" 

“ Not dead! Oh, no; he is not dead; God forbid! But he 


58 


GENEVIEVE. 


is no relative of mine, only a ward of my father’s who was 
brought up in our house. "VVe were just like brother and 
sister. ” 

Euphemie prudently forbore comment until she should see 
a little further into the case : in which this seemed a new and 
perplexing element. She only asked: ‘‘And what may be 
the position, at present, of this young gentleman?” 

“ He is the nephew of the Due de Gralfont, Monsieur Ed- 
ouard de Sercourt,” said Genevieve, frankly, and perhaps a 
little proudly. 

Euphemie changed countenance. She had heard — as who 
by that time had not? — of t' ' ' ' ' the faux 



sauniers, and the tragedy 


house of 


Graff ont of its brightest hope and ornament. Evidently, this 
poor child was as yet in ignorance of the fate of her friend and 
playfellow. Only just bereaved of her mother, a further 
sorrow was in store for her; and how keen a sorrow it might 
prove to the susceptible heart of the young girl, who could 
tell? Euphemie could nol? bear to strike the blow; indeed, 
she thought that in her patient’s present condition it would be 
a serious risk. Prudently postponing explanations, she merely 
said, “ I believe the Due de Graff ont and his household are far 
away in Auvergne.” 

“ I know it,” said Genevieve, with quiet resignation. “ If 
Edouard had been in Paris, he would have helped us? ' He will 
be very sorry when he hears all. He was so fond of my 
mother.” 

There was a pause; then the nurse resumed, more cheerful- 
ly, “ Trust in God, my dear. He is the Friend of the friend- 
less. ” 

.“ If only ’^'—faltered Genevieve — “ if only I could go to 
Port Royal!” 

“ Ah, child! those hospitable doors, which were never closed 
before to the poor and needy, are fast shut now by the malice 
of our enemies. But I am glad to find that you are one of 
those that love our Zion. ” 

“ But I suppose,” Genevieve hazarded, “ I suppose there 
may be other convents where I could find a refuge?” 

“ Not many convents, nowadays, where they take in por- 
tionless girls. Besides, my dear, do you think you have a 
vocation?” 

“ I wish to serve God,” said Genevieve, simply. 

“ That does not say all that is required. Suppose, made- 
moiselle, that I could find for you a suitable place?” 

Genevieve’s pale face flushed hotly. “Oh, no!” she said. 


GENEVIEVE. 


59 


impulsively, “ not that; my mother would not have wished it 
for me. ^ ’ 

“ I do not know/’ said the nurse. “ I think it would de- 
pend upon the kind of place, and the position you were to 
occupy. There are places and places.” She was silent for 
awhile, perhaps to allow this oracular saying to sink into the 
mind of her hearer. Then she resumed, in a kind though 
serious tone: “ Think for a little, my dear. Seeing that you 
have within reach neither kindred nor friends, do you not sup- 
pose that your mother would have wished for you an honorable 
independence? Would she not have esteemed it better for you 
to work with your own hands . the thing that is good, than to 
rely, longer than needful, upon the help of strangers?” 

Genevieve hid her face, and did not answer for some min- 
utes. At last she said, perhaps with a touch of petulance: 
‘‘ I do not care — so much — what happens to me now. It does 
not seem to matter. ” 

Then the words of her unknown benefactor recurred to her 
mind: “ It matters to God, to yourself, and to me.” That 
grave, kind face, with its look of fatherly compassion, seemed 
to reproach her, and she said in a changed, gentle voice: ‘‘ 1 
wish to do what is right. I think it will be best for you to ask 
the kind friend who has done so much for me — since I may 
not know his name. I will do whatever he wishes. ” 

“ It happens, my child, that, by one of those strange . 
chances which ought to be called providences, you have it in 
your power just now to oblige him^ by entering the service of 
a family which he holds in high esteem. A nobleman of the 
first rank, whose friend — that is to say, to whom he considers 
himself under obligation — is seeking for his sister a young 
lady, well bred and well educated, to. act as her maid. You 
will understand, my dear, that such a place, in such a house- 
hold, carries with it, even in a worldly point of view, nothing 
derogatory, but quite the reverse!” 

Genevieve was silent. The thought of entering a great 
household — perhaps like that of M. le Due de Grafiont — was 
very terrible to her. Besides, what would happen if Edouard 
should come to see her, and find her perhaps engaged in some 
menial occupation? To her youth and inexperience, the dis- 
tinction was by no means clear between difille de chambre and 
a demoiselle d\ttours — between a waiting-maid and a lady-in- 
waiting. But, on the other hand, here was an opportunity of 
pleasing her unknown benefactor, and of serving his friends. 
Could she refuse to do this? No! a hundred times no! She 
would take the place. 


60 


GEKEVIET1?.| 


“ There is one difficulty/^ Euphemie continued, thought^ 
fully. Some weeks at least must elapse before you are 
strong enough to enter the household. But I think mademoi* 
selle will be willing to wait for you; There is one great point 
in your favor; you have not been ;y ourself at Port Royal, but 
you have been very carefully brought up by a mother who, we 
have learned, was educated there/ ^ 

‘‘ I suppose it would have been better still if I had been 
there said Genevieve. 

ISTo! for then you could not have entered the household at 
all. The circumstances of the young lady in question are very 
peculiar and very painful. If you are to serve her, I think it 
better you should hear her story beforehand, told truly by my 
lips, than learn through the gossip of the household. But this 
is on the understanding that you will accept the place, should 
we succeed in obtaining it for you. 

I will accept it, and try to do my duty,/ said Genevieve, 
submissively. 

Well, then, listen to me; and learn that the rich and great 
have often worse sorrows to bear than the poor and needy. 
The young Due de Roannez, who is amiable, gifted, brilliant 
— rich in all the world hold^ dear — has seemed for years, like 
the youth in the Gospel whom the Lord Jesus loved, to be 
hesitating between the lower life and the higher. * But while 
he lingered on the threshold, his sister passed in before him, 
and chose the better part. Of rare grace and beauty^ a great 
heiress, and with the incehse of flattery burning perpetually 
before her, life never opened more brightly for any one than 
« it did for Mile. Charlotte Gouffier de Roannez. The subtlest 
snares of pleasure were spread for her feet; and 1 need not tell 
you she had no lack of brilliant suitors,^ the flower of the young 
nobility, yet she turrked away from all, resolved to give her- 
self to God alone. 

She paused; but, as Genevieve made no comment, she pres- 
ently went on: “You may guess the vexation, the anger, the 
despair of her family, who were thoroughly of the world, ^ 
and who had destined her for a splendid alliance. In the 
storm of opposition and persecution she had to endure from 
her mother, her qSucles, and her other relatives, only her 
brother stood by her; but he, though the head of the family 
in name, could not in fact do much to protect her. However, 
it is thought that he assisted her to leave her mother’s house 


* The characters of the Due de Roannez, and of his sister, Mile. 
Charlotte Gouffler de Roannez, are historical. 



GENt:VIEYE. G1 

secretly, and to take refuge in the sacred shadow of Port Royal 
des Champs/^ 

“ But/^ questioned Genevieve, “ was that right? Ought 
she to have disobeyed her mother?^ ^ 

“ ‘ Whoso loveth father more than Me is not worthy of 
Me/ quoted, or rather misquoted, the good nurse, whose 
naturally strong sense and right judgment were overborne in 
this instance by false and misleading theories of the religious 
life. She had herself also been trained at Port Royal; and 
she had learned from her instructors much precious and valu- 
able truth mixed with some grave errors. 

‘‘ Well, it may have been right, Genevieve acquiesced. 

But 1 could not have done it. Not for all the world. 

‘‘ That is because you have not a vocation,^^ said Euphemie; 
though she ought rather to have said: “ That is because you 
had a good mother who commanded your love and rever- 
ence. She continued: ‘‘At Port Royal, Mademoiselle de 
Roannez won the admiration of the good Mere Angelique her- 
self, of Monsieur Arnauld, Monsieur de St. Cyran, and Mon- 
sieur Pascal, who corresponded with her, and strengthened her 
in her pious resolutions. She made a vow of celibacy; and 
she would in due time have taken the veil, but her family 
interposed with fatal effect. I suppose you know the obloquy 
and persecution of which the holy nuns and recluses of Port 
Royal have been, and are still, the victims. Such was the 
animosity felt against them in high places, that the uncles of 
mademoiselle had no difficulty in procuring a Uttre de cachet * 
from the king, obliging her to return to her family.’*’ 

“ That was hard/’ Genevieve allowed. 

Hard? She .had rather have been laid in her grave. 
Moreover, it was sacrilege; taking again from the altar of God 
what had once been offered there. And thus — from the very 
gate of heaven, as one might say — she' has been dragged back 
into the world — into it, but of it she will never be. Surround- 
ed by a gay and thoughtless circle, she lives as retired and self- 
denying a life as she can; endeavoring to keej) alive in her 
heart the flame of piety that all around her are seeking to ex- 
tinguish. Even now I hear that a great alliance is being 
pressed upon her; but this she resists, not only as a fall from 
a higher state to a lower, but as a grievous sin — the sin of per- 
jury. Has she not vowed to be the bride of Christ? She says 

* These lettre» de cachet were arbitrary orders, 'consigning obnoxious 
persons to imprisonment during the king’s pleasure. They were often 
used as above, to compel recalcitrant sons or .daughters of the aris- 
tocracy to conform to the will of their families. 




62 


GENEVIEVE. 


herself that she would rather be a poor paralytic in Port 
Royal than enjoy the greatest fortune the world could give 
her. J udge if it would not be a blessed task for you, my 
child, to soothe by your ministrations the sorrows of this per- 
secuted saint.'’'’ 

‘‘ Oh, yes — yes!^^ said Genevieve, with a flash of sympa- 
thetic enthusiasm. “ 1 shall be glad to serve Mademoiselle de 
Roannez. I hope I shall soon be strong enough, and that she 
will have me. I should like to try and comfort her.'’^ 

Neither the woman of mature age nor the young girl could 
recognize, beneath its garb of beauty and purity, the subtle 
error that was destined to break the noble heart of Charlotte 
Gouffier de Roannez, as it has done many others as devout and 
true. There is, for the follower of Christ, no vocation, ex- 
cept the “ call to be a saint, which is addressed alike to 
every member of the body, and to each in particular, that 
special call to special service, which is made known by the 
position assigned and the gifts bestowed. The vocation of the 
wife and mother is as sacred and honorable as any; and in- 
finitely more honorable than any self-chosen withdrawal from 
the world. Nay, more, the call to be “a bride of Christ has 
never yet been addressed to any individual. There are no 
‘‘ brides of Christ;^^ the very thought is unscriptural, if it be 
not also revolting and blasphemous. The bride of Christ is 
one: that “glorious Church, not having spot or wrinkle, or 
any such thing,'” which He shall present ,to Himself at the 
great marriage supper — the sublime festival for which all cre- 
ation waits, yearning and longing in its pain for the promised 
manifestation of the sons of God. 


CHAPTER IX. 

NEW FRIENDS. 

You never saw her with a smile 
Or with a frown; 

Her bed was never soft to her, 

Though tossed of down. 

She never heeded what she wore— 

Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 

We think her white brow often ached 
Beneath its crown. 

Till silvery threads showed through the locks 
That were so brown. 

C. Rossetti. 

Genevieve recovered steadily, though not rapidly. She 
had the advantage of youth, and of a constitution perfectly 


GENEVIEVE. 


63 


healthy, if somewhat too finely strung to be absolutely robust. 
She had, besides, a genuine desire to get well, so as not to con- 
tinue a helpless burden upon those who had been so kind to 
her. Nor was her recovery retarded either by any want of 
proper care or caution, or by any injudicious overmanage- 
ment. So before many weeks had passed away, Euphemie 
had the satisfaction of conducting to the Hotel Eoannez a pale 
and slender girl in deep mourning, who was ready, though 
with a trembling heart, to begin a new life among strangers. 

Euphemie left her charge in a spacious hall, where she 
waited in shy bewilderment amid a throng of M. de Roannez^s 
“ people, who came and went, paying little attention to her. 
At length a femme de chambre took her in charge, saying she 
had been told to take care' of the new demoiselle. She ad- 
ministered refreshments in the form of pastry and light wine, 
and then called a page, whom she requested to lead the young 
lady to the presence -of her mistress. 

It was evening, and Genevieve presently found herself enter- 
ing a salon, not large, but richly decorated and brilliantly 
lighted. The ladies of the family were alone; for some reason 
they did not “ receive that evening. There were five or six 
in the room, reading or working. An elderly lady, evidently 
the chief personage there, occupied a large fauteuil at the 
upper end; a book and a piece of embroidery lay beside her 
on a small buhl table, but she was not too much occupied with 
either to favor Genevieve with a very keen glance from bright 
black eyes that contrasted strangely, though not unbecoming- 
ly, with the soft whiteness of her powdered hair. 

Confused by this unexpected attention, and by the change 
from the comparative darkness of the corridor into the blaze 
of a score of wax-lights, Genevieve stumbled over a dainty 
rose-lined basket in which two diminutive lap-dogs were re- 
posing. 

“ Take care! This way, ma'amselle,'' whispered the page; 
while Genevieve heard some one exclaim: “ Gauche little 
creature!"^ and one of the outraged favorites, raising his 
pretty head with its long silky ears, began to bark furiously at 
the disturber of his repose. 

This small mishap had the good effect of lending a brilliant 
color to Genevieve^s pale cheeks, as she stood before her new 
mistress and made the low and reverent obeisance that eti- 
quette demanded. 

“ Mademoiselle,^^ for so the household always called her by 
distinction, sat a little apart from the rest. They were all 


G4 


GENEVIEVE. 


brilliantly di'essed, in silks and satins, tres dccolletees/^ and 
with a profusion of jewels; while she wore a plain dark serge, 
close-fitting and buttoned to the throat, and unrelieved by 
any ornament. Her fingers were employed, not with delicate 
embroidery, but with work for the poor, for such was evident- 
ly the destination of the thick woolen garment into which she 
was fitting a sleeve. * 

At the approach of her new attendant she looked up, and 
surveyed her, as the timid girl could not help feeling, with 
indifference, if not with actual coldness. Yet, in spite of her 
-embarrassment, Genevieve^s young eyes saw far more just then 
than did those of Mile, de Roannez. They saw a face beauti- 
ful as that of a Grecian statue, and, like it, cold and colorless, 
in majestic, almost stern repose. . But in the eyes — dark like 
her mother^s, though utterly different in expression — there 
was no coldness, neither was there any repose. Such a look 
of silent, repressed, yearning sorrow had Genevieve never seen 
in any face before. But presently the young heart, ready to 
spring at a touch into loving sympathy, was chilled and thrown 
back upon itself by the words of the stately lady. 

“ You are Mademoiselle Monteres?^^ 

“ Genevieve Monteres, to serve you, mademoiselle,^^ replied 
the girl, in a low voice. 

“ The mistress of the wardrobe will take care of; you, and 
tell you what to do. I have no need of you this evening. I 
hope you will be comfortable.^^ 

Genevieve, understanding that she had leave to retire, made 
another reverence, and looked about for the friendly page, 
who had meanwhile been impressed by the owner of the lap- 
dogs into the service of those interesting animals, and was re- 
galing them with cream and almond biscuits. 

But a voice accustomed to command put an end to her 
momentary indecision. The quick imperative tones came 
from the fauteuil of Mme. la Duchesse. “I pray of you, 
mademoiselle, send that little girl of yours to me.^^ In the 
formal, almost exaggerated courtesy toward her own daugh- 
ter, in the indifference that relegated a girl as refined in mind 
and manners as that daughter herself to quite another and a 
lower sphere — spoke the spirit affd temper of the haute 
noblesse of old France. Rather more kindly than before, 
mademoiselle said to her new attendant, Go, Genevieve, and 
make your reverence to madame.'’^ 

* Made very low, so as to expose the neck. The difference in dress 
between ladies who professed piety and those who did not is not ex- 
aggerated above. 


GENEVIEVE. 


65 


Genevieve obeyed, this time with careful avoidance of im- 
pediments, but not without hearing the comments, made in- 
deed with utter carelessness whether she heard or no — “ Gauche 
— but very pretty/^ “ She has the air of a convent boarder 
with a vocation, praying to be allowed to take the veil.^" 

‘ ‘ That is only because she is in mourning. , Her air is very 
good for a little bourgeoise. Perfectly genteel. 

Meanwhile she made the lowest reverence she could to the 
aged, but still alert and vigorous lady in the fauteuil, and 
stood awaiting her orders. 

“ How old are you, little one?^'’ 

Fifteen, madame.^^ 

“ Do not whisper, 1 am rather deaf. That is better, as 
Genevieve repeated her words. “ Hold up your head, and do 
not look frightened. I have no intention of hurting you. 
Quite the contrary, I think I shall like you. Can you read 
well?"’"’ 

Genevieve hesitated, then she said, in as steady a voice as 
she could command, “ I am used to reading aloud. 

“ That is well. But it is not every one who can read dis- 
tinctly. Some people mutter and mumble, and mix their 
words until it is impossible to understand them. If you are 
really a good reader, I think you will be of use to me.^^ 
(Spoken as if Genevieve, in that case, would adequately fulfill 
the highest ends of her existence). “ Here, take this book, 
and let me hear you.'’ 

The book was the “ Astree of D’Urfey, a French ro- 
mance very popular at the time. “ If you please, madame, 
where shall I began?’'’ asked Genevieve. 

The old lady found the place: answering at the same time 
what either was, or supposed to be, a look of remonstrance 
from her daughter. 

“ Mademoiselle need not look at us so gravely. The poor 
child will have books of piety enough to read, and time enough 
to read them in. We are not all born old, nor born with vo- 
cations either, for which we may thank Providence. Go on. 
Mademoiselle Monteres. ” 

Gene^eve’s first attempt was hardly a success; but an ad- 
monition to raise her voice had, happily, the desired effect. 
When she had read about a page, madame said, condescend- 
ingly: “ That will do. You read well, and have a very pretty 
ruccent. I foresee that 1 shall want you often. Now you may 
"^go.” 

This time the page was awaiting her. He was a lively, 
good-natured youth, very proud of having such a pretty young 


66 


GENEVIEVE. 


lady given in charge to him, and very anxious to win her good 
graces. As soon as the door of the salon closed behind them, 1 
he began to congratulate her. “You are very fortunate, 
Mademoiselle Monteres, as, indeed, so fair and sweet a young i 

lady could not fail to be. Madame has taken a fancy to you. I 

That being the case, she will make you completely her own, i 
and never allow you so much as to take up a pin from the ^ 
toilet-table for anybody else.^^ I 

“But"’^ — said Genevieve, who felt disappointed, and even 
dismayed at the prospect — “ but I was engaged to wait upon 
Mademoiselle de Roannez, and by her special desire, too.'’^ 

The page shook his head. “ Mademoiselle, like the rest of ' : 
us, must give way to the fancies of madam e,^^ he said; “ that 
is, in everything, except being religious, and giving up the | 
world, and so forth. There, mademoiselle is as firm as a ■ 

rock, and Monsieur le Due himself, though he loves a quiet 
life, and stands much in awe of his lady mother, takes her 
part, and will not allow certain persons to *go too far. Come 
to this window for a few moments, ma^amselle. There is a 
good view of the garden; and it is not yet quite too dark to 
see it. Here is a comfortable seat, and we have time in 
plenty. 

Genevieve went to the window, but she did not like to sit 
down. “ What sort of gentleman is Monsieur le Duc?^'’ she 
asked, as she stood looking out on the darkening shrubs and 
trees in their straight and formal row. 

“ He is the noblest and kindest gentleman and the best 
master in the world, said the lad, with enthusiasm. “ He is 
religious, too, like mademoiselle, only less — less — how shall I 
say it? with a little more softness; yod understand? Still, 
he is a strong Jansenist, and he has gone through a whole 
world of trouble about those weary “five propositions.^^ We | 
were afraid, at one time, that the king was going to send him ’j 
to the Bastille, all because he said he could not find them in 
the book of Jansenius, and by way, I suppose, of giving him ! 
time to look for them there.* 1 could never understand about \ 

* This was the formal question in dispute between the Jaiffeenists and \ 

their opponents. All parties agreed in ccildemning the obnoxious ' ‘ five ' 
propositions,” but the Jansenists maintained that they did not express 
the opinions of Jansenius, and were not to be found in his book, the 
“Augustinus.” The pope decided that they were; upon which the 
Jansenists asserted that his holiness was infallible in matters of doctrine, 
but not in matters of fact, and refused to accept his decision. But this 
apparently trivial dispute was in reality only a pretext. — they were per- ^ 

secuted on account of their genuine living piety; “ the world hated 
them, because they were not of the world.” ■ 


GENEVIEVE. 


67 


those five propositions. If they are in the book, why can not 
somebody find them and put them down in plain black and 
white, with such and sudh pages referred to, and then there 
would be an end of the matter? Do you not think so, 
ma’amselle?^^ 

“ 1 scarcely know anything about it at all,^'’ said Genevieve. 

“ Every one seems to agree in condemning the five proposi- 
tions; that is, every one who understands them, and, I dare 
say, a great many > who don^t. But the Jesuits say, and' the 
pope unfortunately agrees with them, that these propositions 
are contained in the book of Monsieur Jansenius about St. • 
Augustine, while those who are called Jansenists say they are 
not.^" 

“ But, surely, said Genevieve, “ the pope ought to know. 

His Holiness the Pope,^'’ said the page, with an air #f 
superior wisdom, “ is infallible in matters of faith, but not in 
matters oi fact.” 

“ Oh!'’'’ said Genevieve, trying to understand, but showing 
by the blank expression of her thoughtful, intelligent face that 
she failed utterly. ‘‘Oh! Is that what the nuns of Port 
Koyal think? I know it is about this matter they are perse- 
cuted, and I am sure they are in the right. '’^ 

“ And I am quite sure*Monsieur le Due is in the right, '’^ re- 
j)lied the page, with equal confidence. “lam very glad you 
are on our side, ma^amselle. But we must, both of us, keep 
our opinions to ourselves. Madame la Duchesse is a bitter 
enemy of the Jansenists, and would be quite capable of turn- 
ing us out into the street if she heard us talking Jansenism. 
Still, if she said anything to me, I would take shelter under 
the skirts of her precious favorites the Jesuits. ‘ Madame,’ I 
would say meekly, ‘ pardon me — 1 was only advancing a prob- 
able opinion.'’ 

“ Would not that be just a little impertinent?” asked Gen- 
evieve, rather mystified. 

The page laughed. “ Why, of course it would! It is a 
probable opinion that it would be rewarded by the sight of 
madame in a towering passion, and the further favor of hav- 
ing my ears boxed by her august hands. She can not bear 
the most distant allusion to the Little Letters. ” 

“ What are the Little Letters?” 

“ Is it possible you have never seen the Little Letters?” 

“ No; nor even heard of them.” 

* The allusion is to the Jesuit doctrine of Probability. Their 
casuists taught that it was safe to follow, in practice, any probable 
opinion. A wide door was thus opened to immorality. 


68 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ Ah! What a pleasure you have in store! They are 
splendid. They have fairly demolished the Jesuits, pounded 
them to mincemeat, ground them to powder. They have set 
our friends all right vvith'the world, and have shown as plain 
as the sunlight that it is not they who are the heretics and the 
impious. And then, they are so amusing. 

“ So amusing !^^ repeated Genevieve, who Ivas somewhat 
shocked, as well as puzzled. “ I thought you were speaking 
of a good book, monsieur. No good book would turn religion 
into ridicule. 

“ No, surely, not religion. Only the irreligion of the 
Jesuits, and their wicked hypocrisy and immorality. That is 
what is wonderful in these Letters — one moment you are 
laughing at their wit, the next, weeping at their pathos, or 
glowing at their eloquence. But I will lend them to you, 
ma’amselle. Monsieur le Due used to bring them in as they 
came out, and give them to us. The other gentlemen have 
sent theirs to friends in the country, or lent them about until 
they are torn to pieces; but 1 kept mine carefully. 1 stitched 
them in a cover, on which 1 wrote the title people give to 
them now, ‘ Letters to a Provincial from one of his Friends.^ 
1 will give the book to you this very night, ma^amselle.^^ 

“ Thank you, monsieur — Genevieve paused, hesitating. 

“ Roland de Viremont, very much at the service of Ma^am- 
selle Monteres.^^ " 

“ Thank you. Monsieur de Viremont; but 1 suppose we' 
ought now to go to — to whoever is to take charge of me,^^ said 
Genevieve, who was more impressed with the idea that she 
ought not to linger in the corridor talking with the page, than 
enlightened about the controversy between the Jesuits and the 
Jansenists. 

“ Immediately, ma^amselle, immediately. I will not forget 
the book. But you may as well not show it too openly, as 
most of the household are on the side of madame — the win- 
ning side just at present. 

“ Who wrote these Letters you are going to lend me?^^ 
asked Genevieve. 

“ That is a secret, ma^amselle. But since it is a secret 
known to a great many, there is no harm in making it known 
to you. The Little Letters are from the pen of my master’s 
most honored friend, the great Monsieur Pascal. Surely you 
have heard of him.J*” 

“ My father used to speak of him. He is a great mathe- 
matician, is he not? He has made discoveries in science. 
Was it riot he who weighed the air?” 


GENEVIKVE. 


6 ^) 


“ That was in former years, when he belonged to the world. 
In those days he and Monsieur le Due were very intimate, 
they were just like brothers. He had a room here, and spent 
more of his time here than in his own house. There was noth- 
ing Monsieur le Due would have withheld from him, so greatly 
did he love him. Of eourse, 1 was not then in the serviee, 
but others have told me the friends never seemed to remem- 
ber that one was a great noble, and the other a simple bour- 
geois; on the other hand, it was Monsieur le Due who seemed 
to feel himself honored by the affection and confidence of so 
great a genius. But by and by Monsieur Pascal took it into 
his head to become religious, and to go into retreat to Port 
Royal to make his salvation. That is how Monsieur le Due 
and mademoiselle became religious also. Monsieur Pascal 
could make them believe whatever he believed, and nothing 
would serve him but to do it. He converted them, as the 
word is. / am not religious, ma^amselle. Are you?^^ 

“ 1 should like to be,^'’ Genevieve answered, simply. 

“ So should I, if it just meant being good and kind to every- 
body, like Monsieur le Due. But to give up the world! To 
take no pleasure in anything! Not to go to a play or a dance; 
and even to forsake oner’s own friends and relatives, and all 
there is in life worth caring about — No! no! But here we 
are. I leave you n 9 w, ma'^amselle, in better hands than 
mine. 

Having delivered up his charge to a portly and stately per- 
sonage, robed in silk, who inspired Genevieve with nearly as 
much awe as Mme. la Duchesse herself, the sprightly page 
made his bow, and departed. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE WEITING OF GENEVIEVE MONTERES. 

'V 

You never heard her speak in haste, 

\ Her tones were sweet. 

And modulated just so much 
As it was meet. 

Her heart sat silent through the noise 
And concourse of the street; 

There was no hurry in her hands, 

No hurry in her feet. 

No joy drew ever near to her 
That she should run to greet. 

C. Rossetti. 

Hotel de Roannez, July 1st, 1662. — To my dear mother 
in Heaven. To my dear, so dear, mother. I wonder if it be 


70 


GENE-VIEYE. 


wrong to write thus, and to let myself dream, while I write, 
that those dear eyes might one day read the words. But foi* 
this dream — only a dream, as of course 1 know it to be — I 
could not write at all. And I think I ought to write. I re- 
member how my dear father said to me: ‘‘ My daughter, I am 
teaching you Latin; but not so much that you may read 
Caesar and Virgil, as that you may read other things with a 
clearer and better trained intelligence. It is usually enough 
for a woman to read the best books in her own language, and 
to write that language well and clearly. I am reading siich 
French books as I can find here; but 1 know that I ought to 
write as well as to read. And what can I write about, except 
the things that I see and hear from day to day? Mile. 
Amand, the Mistress of the Wardrobe, who has served in three 
noble families, is writing the memoirs of her life, and she says 
she will leave the MS. in her will to her nephews and nieces. 
I could not do that. I should not know how to begin a 
memoir, or what to say in it. But I will think 1 am writing 
to thee, my dearest mother, and then the words will come to 
me. 

Mother, mother! how I long for thee! Just for one mo- 
ment to sit down beside thee, to rest on thy dear bosom this 
weary, weary head. Oh, mother, the -world is so wide, so 
busy, so gay, and thy poor forsaken child is so lonely in it! 
Sorely perplexed and sorrowful, and, moreover, often afraid, 
with too much cause, that she is wandering from the right 
path. Mother, help me, if thou canst, for indeed I need thy 
help. 

Perhaps I ought not to have written all this; for I do not 
always feel in this way. Nay, I am sometimes gay enough; 
and there are hours, and even days, when 1 fee] really happy. 
It seems almost as if I were two different persons, leading two 
quite different lives. There is the Genevieve who sits alone in 
this bare, dark little room, thinking sadly of OhateaulDleudon, 
and of the dear father and mother, and of all the happy past 
that is gone from her forever. It is this Genevieve who longs 
so much to be good and religious, though she knows but too 
well that she is not so. But when she has forgotten God, and 
has been betrayed into sin, she is very sorry afterward. Only 
she never knows what to do, or whither to turn. She is like 
one who has lost his way in the dark, and can not find it again, 

* At this period the women of the upper middle class were often well 
and solidly educated — indeed, cultivated to a remarkable degree; much 
more so generally than those of the noblesse. 


GENEVIEVE. 71 

and is afraid to stir hand or foot lest he should go astray yet 
further. And this Genevieve is the true one. 

But there is another, who is like a mask, to hide the real 
face. This other Genevieve lives on the outside of things; 
and it must be allowed that, pretty often, she enjoys her life. 
She attends madame at her levee, and hears what all- the fine 
gentlemen who wait on her have got to say. They are so 
diverting, these gentlemen! She serves madame at other 
times also. She reads romances and poe£ry to her; and when 
she is not on duty, messieurs les pages and the other people of 
the household are always praying for leave to take her out. 
Sometimes they go to see the sights of the city, or to the 
theater, to hear a play of M. Corneille. These plays are very 
instructive, being historical, and M. de Viremont says that 
M. Corneille is a really good man, besides being a great genius, 
so I think this can not be wrong. At all events, it is very 
pleasant. 

But now I must try to set down in a quite simple, straight- 
forward way, what I have got to tell. It is now nearly five 
months since I came here, a quiet, sad little girl in deep 
mourning. At first I was terribly frightened. It was bad 
enough in any case to go alone among strangers, and worse 
when the strangers were such great people. Even supposing 
I contrived to please my noble lady herself, what of the house- 
hold? 1 remember my father used to say that the servants of 
great people are often more insolent and exacting than their 
lords; and 1 am bound to confess, besides, that the one thing 
I depended on, the one hope I had in coming here, has failed 
me utterly. 

I had been engaged, as I understood, to wait upon Mile, 
de Eoannez, and Euphemie had told me a great deal about 
her goodness and piety. But the name of my kind nurse 
reminds me of something that I am forgetting — some- 
thing too of the greatest' importance. I must write down the 
thanks, the warm and grateful thanks, which I owe to that 
dear, good woman, to Pere Antoine, and, above all, to him 
whom 1 may not know. Nothing that I could need, that I 
could wish for, even, was forgotten when they sent me here. 
The deep mourning, the liberal supply of useful clothing, even 
the little purse of louis d"or fresh from the mint for pocket- 
money, witness to their thoughtful care for me. Best of all, 
the white cross on thy grave, mother! — that dear, sacred spot 
— it is such a comfort that 1 can sometimes go and weep there. 

No doubt Euphemie thought 1 should be safe from tempta- 
tion under the sheltering wing of mademoiselle. This was 


.72 


GENEVIEVE. 


what I thought too. 1 dreamed of a sweet saint, who would 
teach me and counsel me, and even perhaps in due time con- 
fide in me; rash, presumptuous child that 1 was I I fancied I 
might soothe and comfort her by my devotion and my hom- 
age. How differently it has all turned out! On the very day 
of my arrival, madame took a fancy to me, and my services 
were forthwith transferred to her. As far as I know, made- 
moiselle gave me up without a word of remonstrance. Proba- 
bly she did not care about me; but even if she had, she would 
have done it all the same. They say she yields instant obedi- 
ence to her mother in all that is not matter of conscience. 
That is right, of course, and it shows that she is really a saint. 
Still, it is very hard for me to be religious, and to wait upon 
madame. In fact, I do not see how it is to be done at all. 
Instead of going to church and to visit the poor, as I should 
do if I served mademoiselle, I am obliged to lead quite a 
worldly life. Is it my fault? 

Madame is always unperious, sometimes passionate. Wq are 
all terribly afraid of her; yet I think we all love h^’ too, for 
she is generous and kind— that is to say, as kind as a great 
lady can be to those so far beneath her. I know she is kind 
to me. Once or twice she has even pinched my cheek, and 
called me her “ little cat,^'’ which Mile. Amand says is a won- 
derful mark of favor. It is certainly another that when she 
completes her toilet in her carriage, which she often does, she 
takes me with her to put on the rouge, and just the touch of 
powder she likes to have. She says I do it “ with more deli- 
cate discrimination than any one else. I think I am getting 
over my fear of her. After all, why should I be afraid? No 
one need be awkward who keeps possession of her senses, and 
minds what she is doing; and no one can offend by speech who 
only answers questions, and who is always careful to use the 
proper titles of respect. 

It is a white morning for me, and for others too, when M. 
le Due waits upon m^ame at her levee. But he is often 
absent. I know not why, or where. There is a general im- 
pression among us that he visits M. Arnauld, M. Nicole, M. 
Singlin, and other chiefs of the Jansenist party, who are either 
in prison or in hiding; and that he and they are planning 
measures for the defeat of the Jesuits, and the destruction of 
their influence with the king. And sometimes he goes to his 
estates in the country. But when he is here we are all of us 
the better for his presence. I ought to try and describe him. 
Mile. Amand describes the great personages she writes about, 
and she is sometimes good enough to read her descriptions to 


GENHVIEVE. 


73 


us. They are full of cleverness and esprit — but 1 have no 
esprit, so I will not try to describe any one. M. le Due is tall 
and fair; he is quite middle-aged, that is to say, over thirty, 
but, like every one else, he is very submissive to his lady 
mother, who, in fact, does whatever she pleases. 1 think he 
does not greatly love his uncles and cousins; those nurderous 
Gouffiers whose titles I never can remember^ but who are 
always staying here, or coming in to dine and sup, an^ to %lk 
against the Jansenists with madame. But he loves made- 
moiselle tenderly; more so, 1 think, than she — 

What was I going to write? How, indeed, shall I write at 
all of mademoiselle? She is so good, so grand, so beautiful. 
Especially so beautiful. I have never seen any face at all like 
hers. It is pale, just touched with the faini^fest rose on either 
cheek; and there is in it such dignity, grace, and loveliness 
that you feel as if you could kneel at her feet and gaze at her 
forever. She wears her beautiful brown hair au naturel, dis- 
carding powder as a vanity, and / think this suits her severe 
and stately beauty. But it is her eyes that are most wonder- 
ful to me. Such far-looking, pathetic, yearning eyes! There 
is something in them that pains and disturbs, even almost ter- 
rifies me. Mademoiselle is religious, and she is persecuted; 
and does not the Gospel say, ■ ‘ Blessed are those that are per- 
secuted for righteousness’ sake?” Mademoiselle, I suppose, 
is blessed, but 1 am sure she is not happy. I see it; I am 
convinced of it. Perhaps it is because she was taken from 
Port Royal, which she loved so well, and forced to come here, 
and to live in a world she detests and despises. Perhaps it is 
because her mother and her uncles wish to compel her to 
marry the Due de la Feuillade, which would be, for he^^who 
has vowed herself to Heaven, a perjury and a sacrilege. But 
they will not succeed in so wicked an attempt. Mademoiselle 
would rather die than yield to them. And after all, there is 
M. le Due to protect his sister. 

July M . — Until quite lately mademoiseHe seemed scarcely 
aware of the existence of the insignificant little girl who was 
brought here to wait on her, and who, for her part, could have 
kissed the dust beneath her feet, so passionately did she — and 
does she — admire and revere her. But to-day she has honored 
me with quite a long conversation, which has changed rever- 
ence into something else. I must write down every word while 
it is fresh in my mind. When she spoke to me, I trembled as 
if she had been a queen, yet would 1 not have missed a word, 
a gesture, a tone of her voice. She sent a maid to summon 
me to her boudoir, where I had never been before. I was sur- 


74 


GENEVIEVE. 


prised to see the bare, dreary little room, scarce better than 
this attic where I write, save that of course it has a good win- 
dow and a chimney. Its only ornament is a crucifix, and its 
chief furniture a table covered with books, before which she 
was sitting when I entered, in a straight, high-backed chair. 
1 came forward and made my reverence, whereupon she had 
the condescension to desire me to be seated on a footstool near 
her. 

“ I wish to ask you a few questions,^^ she said. 

My heart beat quickly between fear and hope. 1 longed, 
oh, how intensely! that she would say something to me about 
religion, and about the salvation of my soul, though I trem- 
bled and shrunk into myself at the thought of having to an- 
swer her. I was much more disappointed than relieved, how- 
ever, when she only asked me about my father. Was he not 
the son of the wealthy Farmer-General M. Mon teres? Had 
he not been counselor to the Parliament of Eouen? I an- 
swered “ yes to both questions. Then she asked if I had 
ever heard him speak of a certain M. Pliant. 

“ Think, my child, she said. “If he ever uttered the 
name in your hearing, it was probably with some natural re- 
sentment, as the name of an enemy. 

I answered: “ I never heard him speak of any one with re- 
sentment, or as an enemy. He was at peace with all. 

“ That was well, my child,^^ she said. “ But if you do not 
remember the name of Monsieur Pliant, perhaps that of his 
client, I may add his tool, the Abbe de Gars, may not be un- 
known to you. Think again. 

1 said, “ Oh, yes, mademoiselle, my mother has told me of 
the Abbe de Gars. It was he who began the lawsuit against 
my father — that unjust, cruel lawsuit that ruined us.^^ 

Then she told me that M. Pliant had been the advocate and 
counselor of the abbe, and, she believed, his instigator. “ But 
I am glad,^^ said she, “ to find the name unknown to you, and 
your mind free from the entanglement of hard and resentful 
thoughts. But were it even otherwise, you might dismiss 
them now, for your father^s enemy lies on his death-bed, in 
^reat poverty and suffering, and in yet greater mental dis- 
tress. He repents him bitterly of the part he acted in that 
affair.^' 

Something in her look and manner prompted me to say, 
“ Mademoiselle, if I could say or do aught to comfort him," I 
know my father would have wished it, and my mother also. 

Her grand, calm face had a softened look, as if my words 
had touched her. She said; “You are a good child. Gene- 


GENEVIEVE. 


75 


vieve. Yes, you can pray for him, and you can let me tell him 
from your lips that the past is forgiven by you, and that you 
believe it was forgiven by your father, before he passed away.'’^ 

“ I humbly pray of mademoiselle to be so good as to tell 
him so,^^ I answered. 

Presently she resumed: ‘‘ You have had the great blessing, 
Genevieve, of good parents, and especially of a good mother. 
Never forget to thank God for that. I have been told that 
Madame Monteres was educated at Port Koyal, under the c^-e 
of the now sainted Mere Angelique; and that she carried the 
spirit of Port Eoyal with her throughout her life, even though 
she chose the lower path, was given in marriage, and lived in 
the world. 

“ She never lived in the world, if it please mademoiselle,^^ 
said 1; zeal for that beloved memory overcoming even my awe 
of her. “ She always lived in the country, in our own cha- 
teau; and she never went to Paris, except at the end — to die.^^ 

“ Poor child said mademoiselle, a little scornfully as 1 
thought. ‘‘ Do you then think that Paris is the world 

“ 1 do not know, mademoiselle,^^ I answered, certainly with 
truth. 1 hoped she would tell me what the world really is, for 
that is a question which puzzles me sorely; but she turned 
from the subject and began to talk to me of my dear mother, 
and of her death. Euphemie, whom she seems to know very 
well, had told her about it. She said then, as 1 thought with 
feeling, “ It was God who directed your steps, that sorrowful 
evening, to the door of St. Sulpice. 

“ And surely Dodd's angel met me there, 1 murmured, in 
reply. 

Her next question surprised me a little. 

‘‘ Have you a clear remembrance of the form and the feat- 
ures of your benefactor 

1 looked up in her face and met her eyes. Somehow I felt 
drawn to her closer, than ever before; I was not afraid of her 
any longer; for she seemed to be speaking now, not like a 
saint who was trying to edify herself or me, but only like a 
woman, who asked because she really wanted to know. As I 
hesitated for a moment, she asked, “ Should you know him 
again if you saw him?^^ 

“ I should know him,'’^ 1 said, “ anywhere and in any dis- 
guise. Should I never see him again on earth, I shall know 
him, if it please God, before His throne, and thank him 
there. 

“ Was he young or old? Or, haply, in the prime of life?^^ 
Not young, I said. “ And, if old, I scarcely know, for 


76 


GENEVIEVE. 


he was worn and bent, as if with long sickness and pain. The 
only feature I noted distinctly was his great, broad forehead. 
When he stooped over to speak to me I felt a kind of awe of 
him, as if he were the king. But then his look of pitying 
kindness made me feel instead as if he ^ere my father. 

“ What did he say to you?’^ 

For answer I repeated carefully every well-remembered 
word. I was in no danger of omitting aught, for many and 
many a time have I gone over all again, fixing in my memory 
every tone and gesture. So keen and sympathizing was the 
attention of mademoiselle, and so carried away was I with my 
story, that in the end — I am ashamed to write it — I forgot 
myself so far as to ask her a question, which, as every one un-’ 
derstands, is a grave breach of etiquette on the part of an in- 
ferior. 

“ Is it that mademoiselle may possibly know him?^^ 

A moment afterward 1 was aware of my fault, but 1 was not 
punished as I deserved; rather was I rewarded by a sight I had 
never seen before — a brilliant flush (not by any means a §ush 
of anger) overspreading the pale cheek of mademoiselle, while 
her dark eyes glowed and kindled. It was as if a flood of rosy 
light had welled up suddenly from some deep fount within. 
It made me think of madame’s favorite lamp of radiant Vene- 
tian glass, when first the wick is kindled inside. I never 
thought a human face could look so beautiful as hers did 
then. 

If there was a slight shade of reproof in her words, her tone 
took it all away. 

‘‘ You should scarcely ask me that, my child; and yet I will 
answer you. I do not know, but 1 can guess. If I guess 
aright, you may pray for your benefactor as the greatest, the 
noblest, the holiest of men, and, at the same time, one of the 
most sorely tried and tempted. Now go, and God bless 
thee!^^ 

She laid her hand for a moment, just a moment, on my 
head, then withdrew it, and dismissed me with a gesture. 

I had always loved her, but never so passionately as at that 
moment. So I ventured— I know it was very daring — to slip 
from my low seat into a kneeling posture, and to press my lips 
on her thin white hand. I marveled to feel how hot and how 
trembling it was. 

She did not reject the mute, reverential caress, though she 
accepted it, as it were, under protest. You have told me, my 
mother, that at Port Royal the very children in the schools 
were forbidden to fbndle and kiss, or even to touch each other. 


GENEVIEVE. 


77 


Such endearments savored too much of attachment to the 
creature. Mademoiselle is a saint, it is true, but 1 think she 
is much else besides that. She said to me quite gently, “ Poor 
child, you have no mother. I would willingly befriend you 
and help you as far as I may. It is our duty to help one an- 
other; though we should do it because it is a duty, and not 
from weak and sinful earthly preferences and attachments. I 
shall speak with you, if God wills it, from time to time. But 
now you must go, for it is the hour when yt)u ought to attend 
upon madame.^^ 

She will speak with me sometimes, if God permits. Is it 
any wonder that I am happy? Mother, mother, if you can 
know it, how glad you must be! To think that one so good 
and holy as mademoiselle should condescend to befriend me, 
even to counsel me! Surely she will explain everything that 
perplexes me; surely she will help me to be good and religious, 
and to make my salvation. But how can I keep free from 
“ earthly preferences and attachments,^^ when I feel as I do 
at this moment toward her? How ought I to keep free from 
them, when my attachment to her makes me wish to grow 
better and holier? Is she free from them herself? Has she 
been so always? Strange thoughts rise in my mind — but I 
must not write them down, it would be far too daring. What 
business have I; a foolish little girl, to weave fancies and to 
dream dreams about the doings and sufferings of these great 
people, so far above me? But at least there can be no harm 
in the daily prayer I mean to pray henceforward for made- 
moiselle, that God would comfort all her sorrows, whatever 
these may be, or may have been. I shall always name her to- 
gether with that friend of mine who has no name for me. I 
think that would please her, if she knew it. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE WKITING OF GENEVIEVE MONTERES — {continued)* 

July 13th. — There is a subject upon which I think much 
and often, but there is no one to whom I can speak of it. 
Only once since I came here did I chance to hear even the 
most distant allusion to the Hue de Graff ont; that was when 
some one said to madame at her levee one day, that “ this poor 
duke was still buried alive in bis den of a chateau in Au- 
vergne, being out of favor with the king on account of M. 
Fouquet^s affair. I know that people do not often talk of 
those who are out of favor with the king. But what is 
Edouard doing .all this time? There! the name has slipped 


78 


GENEVIEVE. 


unawares from my pen; M. de Sercourt is what I should write, 
of course. How amazed the household would be if, in some 
unguarded moment, I were to permit myself to mention 
Edouard de Sercourt! They would think me fit for the 
Bicetre. * That is why I can not bring myself to speak of him 
at all. Since I have been in the service I have come to know 
what a strange thing it was for a youth belonging to the haute 
noblesse, perhaps the heir of a peer of France, to have been 
brought up with a little bourgeoise like me, as if we were broth- 
er iind sister. Of course, it happened because he was in a kind 
of concealment — under a cloud, as it were — his father having 
got into trouble about the siege of Eochelle. He is a Prot- 
estant, too, but that makes no difference. It reminds me, 
however, that the other day I heard one of the sisters of ma- 
dame, who is very bitter against the Jansenists, taunt made- 
moiselle with being “ nothing but a Protestant and a disciple 
of Calvin. Mademoiselle answered that she was no Pro- 
testant, that the doctors of Port Eoyal had always been fore- 
most in opposing the errors of Calvin; but that the Jesuits, by 
the laxity of morals they permitted and encouraged, were 
proving themselves the most dangerous enemies of the faith, 
and playing into the hands of the heretics. I have tried to 
write down this answer correctly, because I think it very 
clever, though I do not understand it. • How could I, when I 
know neither what are the errors of Calvin, nor what the 
Jesuits teach, except so far as I have learned this last from the 
“ Little Letters of M. Pascal; and certainly, from his ac- 
count of them, their docrines seem to be bad enough. 

July %hth . — Mademoiselle is very good to me now. Still 
somewhat cold and reserved in manner; but, oh! so kind in 
all that goes to make real kindness. I can not describe the 
change in my life since that talk we had about three weeks 
ago. Mile. Amand tells me something which is very 
strange — if true. She says' mademoiselle liked me from the 
moment I entered the house. 1 asked, if that were so, why 
did she give me up so readily to madame? “ Do you not 
know that is her way.^"^ was the answer. “ It is because she 
is religious. These saints believe that if they care for a thing, 
that is just the reason they ought not to have it. And if they 
hate a thing with all their hearts, that is just what they must 
have, or do. That is how they subdue the flesh and renounce 
the world ” 

Said M. de Viremont, who was standing by: ‘‘ Then it is 

* Hospital for the insane. 


GENEVIEVE. 


79 


B the duty of mademoiselle to accept Monsieur de la 
-de at once, for assuredly she hates him-— as saints can 
hate; though I can not tell why, for my life, since he is a 
handsome and gallant gentleman, and has the most distin- 
guished manners. 

This pert, flippant speech made me so angry, and 1 answered 
M. de Viremont with such heat, that Mile. Amand imposed 
silence on us both. 1 am sorry I spoke uncourteously, but 
scarce' sorry to have quarreled with M. de Viremont, who is 
growing forward and intrusive, and more troublesome to' me'^ 
of late than 1 like. I am glad for this, as well as for other 
reasons, tltit I have promised mademoiselle to go no more to 
the theater, even to see the tragedies of M. Corneille, which I 
am sure are very improving, as well as quite religious. I 
have also given up playing cards in Mile. Amandas room — 
not greatly to her contentment. 

July — Something has just happened which makes me 

understand better what Mile. Armand said yesterday; and also 
makes me' doubly glad that I put down the impertinence of 
M. de Viremont, though I fear it was rather sharply done for 
a young lady. Mademoiselle sent for me to her room, and 
said a few words — very kind words, too, but which, for all 
that, 1 do not care to write down here. For they arose out of 
a total mistake. Some one must have told her some foolish 
story, in which there was not a word of truth, about one of 
the gentlemen of M. le Due. How could any one imagine 
that 1 was thinking of having suitors — at my age? 1 shall not 
be sixteen until next month, and even then 1 shall still be 
quite a child, so to speak. Ah, mother, mother! how every- 
thing makes me feel the need of thee! Even mademoiselle 
can not be like thee — how could she? Still, she is grand, 
and good, and noble; so high above me that I scarcely dare to 
lovq her. Yet I do love her, and with all my heart. But it 
is only her last words to me that 1 wish to write down now. 

‘ ‘ My child, if you determine to give up the world, and to give 
your heart to God, there is much pain, and perhaps a life-long 
struggle before you: for, remember. He will not accept a 
divided heart. His words remain forever: ‘ Whoso cometh 
unto Me and hateth not,'’ his nearest and dearest upon earth, 

‘ yea, and his own life also, he can not be My disciple.'’ But 
He is worth it all. One moment of the joy of knowing Him, 
and realizing His love, is worth a life-time of the best the 
world has to give. I have found that, and so have some who 
are far better and wiser than I. God grant that you may And 
it too!^^ 


80 


GENEVIEVE. 


Can I say Amen to that prayer? I do not know. God 
knows that I wish to love and serve Him here, as well as to 
inherit His kingdom hereafter. But what is this price that I 
shall have to pay? Can I hate — can I even give up loving — 
the people and things around me, so kind and so pleasant? 
Father and mother, and my adopted brother— the kind friend 
that met me at the door of St. Sulpice — and even, for there 
should he no exception, mademoiselle herself ! She would tell 
me that to “ hate ” means only not to have attachment, which 
is sinful; but that our Saviour ^s words do not exclude the love 
of charity, which we may — nay, which we ought to — feel for 
every one. But this seems cold comfort to the wafm, beat- 
ing, human heart. 

What am 1 to think about it all? And what am I to do? 
God help me! God teach me! 

If I am not willing to give up for His sake all that keeps 
me from serving Him rightly, may He make me willing! And 
if already He has made me willing, may He show me how to 
do it! 


CHAPTER XH. 

THETWOPATHg. 

For some time afterward Genevieve’s diary lay neglected. 
Perhaps the sustained exertion proved fatiguing to so young a 
writer, perhaps she was really too busy. Occasional conversa- 
tions with mademoiselle, thoughtful readings of the books she 
lent her, and little services voluntarily undertaken for her, 
now supplemented her usual duties toward madame, who was 
by no means an unexacting mistress. Yet there were moments 
of leisure which she could have appropriated to her self-im- 
posed task, and, young as she was, she had already something 
of a French woman’s facility with her pen. But her thoughts 
were hardly clear enough to transfer to paper. A lake must 
be at rest if distinct images are to be reflected there; and 
Genevieve’s young mind was not at rest, but darkened by 
clouds and tossed by storms. Two opposite forces, the 
world,” and “religion,” were contending for her; and she 
stood between them in perplexity, not so much uncertain for 
which to decide, as ignorant of what her decision might in- 
volve, and unknowing how to give effect to it. 

She inherited from her father a singular honesty of mind, a 
clear intelligence, and reasoning powers much above the aver- 
age; while tenderness and reverence were her mother’s gifts. 


GENEVIEVE. 


81 


and her mother^s training had had for its object the ingraft- 
ing upon these of a sincere and enlightened piety, free from 
the grosser forms of self-nghteousness and superstition. She 
brought with her to the 'Hotel de Koannez a real desire to 
serve God and to do His will. Nor perhaps was her young 
heart wholly destitute, even then, of that living faith in the 
Divine Saviour which is the root of all true religion. Had 
mademoiselle appealed to this, they would quickly have 
understood each other, and the older and more experienced 
disciple might have rendered priceless service to her younger'*' 
sister. 

But unfortunately ‘mademoiselle, like others of her school, 
was occupied less with the great illumination the Gospel 
brings, than with the great renunciation it demands. More- 
over, she mistook not only the place of that renunciation in 
the Christian life, but also the sphere of its operation. She 
was quite free from the deadly error of expecting eternal life 
as the reward of merit — even of the merit of giving up all to 
follow Christ. But she was not free from the subtler delusion 
of thinking that the giving up and the following must come 
first, and that the blessing would depend eventually upon 
their thoroughness and completeness. It was her plan to 
drive out the darkness, in the hope that the light would come 
in to fill the vacuum, though Nature taught her a different 
lesson every morning when she opened her casement to admit 
the sunshine. As for the sphere of the Christianas renuncia- 
tion, in her mind it was like a pall covering all the earth, and 
well-nigh all the heavens, with its blackness. Every profess- 
ing Christian vows — every real Christian vows with sincerity 
— “ to renounce the world, the fiesh, and the devil. If we 
exclude the last of these terms as scarcely open to controversy, 
it is evident that most of the practical problems of Christian 
life must depend for their solution upon the way in which we 
define the two first. Port Eoyal and its school were ready 
with their definitions — which were clear, and sharp, and keen 
as Damascus blades to divide asunder, not only the thoughts 
and intents of the heart, but its tenderest and most sensitive 
fibers. All which is within us that is not Christ is the flesh, 
and therefore “ abominable all which is around us that is 
not Christ is the world, and therefore “abominable^"’ — the 
word is not ours, but that of the greatest disciple of Port 
Eoyal. * All social engagements and enjoyments, all science, 

* Pascal; from whose writings, and those of the other Port Royalists, 
these ideas are taken, without any exaggeration, hut rather the re- 
verse. 


82 


GENEVIEVE. 


almost all art and literature, must belong therefore either to 
the world or to the flesh. It must be as much a sin to be in- 
tent upon a scientific problem as to be drunk with wine, 
wherein is excess. But there was worse behind. This teach- 
ing placed under the ban not only the occupations and amuse- 
ments, but the ten derest affections of life. Family ties formed 
a snare as dangerous, or more so, because far subtler than the 
seductions of ambition, or the more open allurements of vice. 
For, “ if there be a God, He alone, and not the creatures of 
time, should be the object of our love. Therefore all that in- 
cites us to attach ourselves to the creature is evil, since it 
hinders us, either from serving God, if we know Him, or from 
seeking Him, if we know Him not. Moreover, we are full of 
sin, we are full of evil, therefore we ought to hate ourselves 
and all that excites in us any attachment except to God 
alone. 

Well may those' truly Christian men and women, for such 
they were who received this terrible saying, be compared to 
Lazarus emerging from his tomb, every nerve and vein throb- 
bing with fresh and vigorous life, yet bound and tied, con- 
strained and impeded, by cerements appropriate to the dead, 
but unsuitable and abhorrent to the living. Hay, an image 
yet more frightful occurs to the imagination. There have 
been living bodies incased in lime, which hardened around the 
palpitating flesh, as it struggled hopelessly against its deadly 
environment. Thus did tender hearts struggle and suffer in 
vain in the grasp of the awful theory which made opposing 
forces of divine and human love, and substituted, Love God 
instead of all else,^^ in the place of Love all else in God.^^ 

Charlotte Gouffier de Roannez had faced and endured this 
martyrdom. She had borne, in heroic silence, the quivering 
of the strained nerves, the aching of the tortured heart. She 
was able to do it only because she believed she was doing it 
for Christ. Across “ the clouds that veiled His face,^^ across 
the mists of error and superstition, a vision had come to her 
which made her strong to do and to suffer. She saw Him now 
by faith as “ all her salvation and all her desire;'’^ she hoped 
to see Him one day, with eyes purified from the tears and the 
darkness of earth, as the King in His beauty, to be with Him 
and to be like Him forever. So for the present she was con- 
tent to follow Him, “ in the way of the cross, even though 
it were with bleeding feet and breaking heart. 

But to Genevieve the vision had not come as yet. There- 


* Pascal. 


GENEVIEVE. 


83 


fore it was no marvel if her perplexed and sorrowful heart 
cried aloud from its depths, “ ‘ This is a hard saying, who can 
bear it?' Not I at least.’" Reason as well as feeling seemed 
to revolt against what was demanded from her; and the claims 
of both were re-enforced by the circumstances of her life, 
which could not fail to influence one so young, and naturally 
so impressible. 

Mme. la Duchesse was not long in ignorance of the kind of 
friendship which had sprung up between her daughter and her 
favorite attendant. She disapproved of it strongly; indeed, 
nothing of a trifling nature (and of course all matters relating 
to domestics were trifling in the eyes of the great lady) could 
well annoy her more than that any one about her person 
should become “a saint” and receive “^e seal of Port 
Royal.” She desired to break the spell; moreover, she came 
unconsciously to set a higher value herself upon what she saw 
to be sought after by another. Genevieve therefore had pres- 
ents and marks of favor showered upon her by her generous 
though imperious mistress. Madame went even a little 
further: she condescended to notice the good looks of her 
demoiselle, to suggest becoming apparel, and even to hint at 
an establishment, which might easily be found “ for a young 
girl so pretty and so genteel.” Although this last idea gave 
Genevieve no pleasure at all, still the favor and notice of a 
personage so exalted as madame could not fail to awaken, in 
so young a heart, a little tumult of excitement and of gratified 
vanity. These feelings reached their climax when madame 
one day observed to her, with unheard-of condescension, “ A 
little bird has whispered to me that this is thy birthday. See 
how this bracelet will look upon that slender white arm of 
thine.” 

Genevieve received with respectful gratitude the beautiful 
gift, by far the most costly that had as yet been bestowed 
upon her. Then she withdrew to her own little chamber, 
where she placed the glittering bauble before her, beside a 
small volume containing the devout meditations of M. Singlin, 
the spiritual director of the nuns of Port Royal. The shining 
jewels and the unpretending, darkly bound little book in its 
faded cover, seemed the emblems of two principles that were 
contending for her; the two lives that stretched out before 
her, like separate paths, tempting her uncertain feet. Which 
shcmld she choose, this or that? 


84 


GENEVIEVE. 


CHAPTER XIIL 

THE CLOSE OF A NOBLE LIFE. 

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies, 

One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the (noblest) soul 
That ever looked from human eyes. 

Tennyson. 

One forenoon, rather late in August, Mme. la Duchesse de 
Roannez “ received.-’^ That is to say, her intimate friends of 
the opposite sex were permitted to wait upon her, to amuse 
her with on dits/^ the Court and of society, and with the brill- 
iant, witty talk about trifies which was cultivated as a fine art, 
and brought to such perfection, in the France of that day. 
She was quite prepared for her visitors. She reclined in a 
graceful posture, upon a stately couch with embroidered cov- 
erings and costly hangings of rich brocade; not that she was 
in the least indisposed, but that such was then the ordinary 
custom of great ladies. She wore a morning cap of exquisite 
lace, and a morning robe of blue satin, trimmed with the same 
costly material; her faded cheek had received its customary 
rouge, and her hair its delicate touch ‘ of powder, concealing 
the silver which the hand of Time had already bestowed- 
Genevieve stood beside her, ready to perform those concluding 
ceremonies of the toilet which it was then the curious habit of 
fashionable ladies, as well as of great princes, to undergo in 
public. 

All was arranged to her liking; and she had partaken of her 
customary chocolate and cakes with an excellent appetite; yet 
a cloud of anxiety and annoyance sat upon her brow. She 
cared more than usual about this morning^s reception, as 
she had had a hint that a great personage intended to honor 
her with a call. This was no other than the Archbishop of 
Paris. 

Madame knew very well that this polished and agreeable 
gentleman was an object of cordial detestation both to her son 
and to her daughter, not only on account of his private vices, 
but still more because of his cruel and relentless persecution 
of the Jansenists, and especially of the nuns of Port Royal. 
Yet the part he took was natural enough — for him. The 
darkness always hates the light; and even when light and 
darkness assume unwonted forms, they instinctively recognize 
each other underneath all disguises, and begin to fight out the 


GENEVIEVE. 85 

internecine feud, though it may be with new weapons and 
under changed conditions. 

But madame had determined that, whatever their private 
feelings might be, M. le Due and mademoiselle should assist 
her in receiving Mgr. de Paris. * She sent a peremptory mes- 
sage in the first instance to her son, but received the disap- 
pointing answer that M. le Due had gone out early the day 
before, and had not since returned. Genevieve hoped .that she 
might be made the bearer of the message to mademoiselle: 
and the rather because she had not seen her the preceding day, 
except in public, when she thought she observed an added 
paleness on her cheek, and a shade of unusual sadness in her 
look and manner. She feared that some new and cruel attempt 
was being made to shake her resolution to live for God alone. 
But madame would not allow her demoiselle to leave her side; 
she told her instead to summon a page, by touching the little 
silver bell that lay on a table of marqueterie near her bed. 

De Viremont appeared in a moment and received the mes- 
sage. He had, in fact, been waiting in the ante-chamber, 
which, with the chamber of reception, formed really one great 
saloon. The upper part of it, upon which the bed of madame 
was placed, was rais^ above the rest by a few steps, and fur- 
ther divided from it by a row of slight, low pillars, lavishly 
ornamented. The space beside the bed, then often called the 
was furnished gorgeously, and in the style which we 
now call Louis Quatorze. Pictures, statuettes, vases, mirrors 
profusely gilded, baskets of exquisite flowers, and fancy tables 
of costly wood abounded everywhere; as did also chairs and 
stools of different kinds, covered with rose-colored satin, and 
destined to accommodate the guests of madame, with wise, 
discriminative adaptation to the rank and pretensions of each. 

These guests now began to arrive; the earliest, who were of 
no particular note, receiving greetings easy, and even careless 
in tone, yet in reality framed and graduated with such con- 
summate tact that each one felt he had his due amount of rec- 
ognition, and was, or should have been, content. Madame, 
like another great lady, had the reputation of being so well 
bred that you could tell, merely from her pronunciation of the 
word “ monseigneur,'" whether she was speaking to a prince 
of the blood, a prince of the Church, or a peer of France. 

But this morning, though as courteous as usual, she was not 
at ease. Now and then she even cast an anxious glance at the 
little side door by which mademoiselle could enter without 

* My Lord of Paris— so the archbishop was usually called. 


GENEVIEVE. 


8G 

passing through the ante-chamber. She kept Genevieve busy 
handing her the costly scents and essences she was fond of 
using, and fanning her, since the day was hot, and worry of 
mind does not tend to cool the blood. What would the world 
say if neither M. le Due nor mademoiselle made an appear- 
ance when the archbishop did her the honor to visit at her 
house? It would be enough to finish the reputation of the 
family for eccentricity, not to say for Jansenism, which was as 
bad as heresy — that is, if there was any difference, which she 
could not see that there was. “This poor Eoannez (so, 
even in her thoughts, she named her own son) might expect 
to be favored, one of these days, with a lettre de ca^iet, and to 
find himself in the Bastille. While as for Charlotte — really 
she was “ at the end of her Latin,^^ about Charlotte — she 
knew no longer what to think of the young lady, or what to 
do with her. 

She was busy with these thoughts — yet not too busy to carry 
on a conversation about the hinge’s last visit to Marly with M. 
le Vicomte d^Entraigues — when a gentleman of stately bear- 
ing, richly and carefully dressed, advanced to greet her with 
an air of even unusual respect and assiduity. After bowing 
low over the hand which she very graciously extended to him, 
he cast around him an anxious, disappointed glance, which 
Genevieve at least understood but too well. For this was the 
Due de la Feuillade, who “ pretended to the hand of made- 
moiselle — mademoiselle, who would rather go to the grave 
than to the altar at his side — for was she not already the bride 
of Heaven? 

Very inopportunely, as Genevieve thought — though madame 
would scarcely have agreed with her — at that moment the 
side door was opened, and mademoiselle herself appeared. 
Very pale and very sad she looked; still, with her accustomed 
calm and dignified grace she went forward, kissed the hand of 
her mother ceremoniously, acknowledged with suitable “ rev- 
erences the respectful greetings of the gentlemen present, 
and then seated herself on a stool beside the bed. She wol*e, 
as usual, a plain, dark dress, without any ornament, unless 
the gold cross that hung from her neck might be called an 
ornament. As this was one of the few occasions upon which 
etiquette allowed a gentleman the privilege of conversation with 
a young lady whom he admired, the Due de la Feuillade was 
not disposed to forego it; so he approached with a due mixture 
of deference and empressement, and began to say something to 
mademoiselle about her brother. 

Genevieve was watching them with interest, when an im- 


aEXEVIEVE. 


87 


perious whisper from her mistress recalled her to her duties. 
“ Fetch that rose-water, child, and sprinkle my hands and my 
face, or I shall expire. In fact, 1 am ready to faint. Here 
comes that terrible Abbe de Chaumton! Such a Jansenist! 
What if the archbishop should meet him here!^^ 

Genevieve obeyed, of course; then stood aside to permit the 
new-comer to offer his homage. He was an old ecclesiastic of 
pure and charitable life, with but few pretensions to fashion, 
whom madame barely tolerated on account of a distant rela- 
tionship with the family of her husband. She acknowledged 
his greeting, however, with the politeness that never failed 
her; then he bowed respectfully to mademoiselle, and subsided 
quietly into one of the lowliest seats in the background. 

Partly out of good nature, partly perhaps from a desire to 
propitiate mademoiselle by patronizing a suspected Jansenist, 
M. de Feuillade turned toward him, and spoke graciously: 
“Well, Monsieur PAbbe, do you bring us any news this 
morning from your part of the city — the Quartier St. Jacques, 
I believe?^'’ 

There happened just then a momentary silence, in which 
the low quiet voice of the old abbe reached every ear — ‘ ‘ Mon- 
sieur Pascal is dead. 

A silence followed longer and more significant. The great 
lady, hardened though she was by sixty years of fashion and 
frivolity, the gay and thoughtless young cavalier, the man of 
society and business, all paid to the tidings an involuntary 
tribute of reverence that hushed their lips. But for a minute, 
however — then the voices rose again, and several of them to- 
gether, in comment or inquiry. 

“ Ah, what a misfortune!"^ said the Due de la Feuillade. 
“ A fine genius — though of late so eccentric and secluded."" 

“ Was his illness a long one. Monsieur PAbbe?"" asked 
D"Entraigues, turning to the modest old priest, who now be- 
came the center of interest and attraction to the brilliant 
group, in whi(i usually his presence was politely ignored. 
He was, however, too simple-hearted, and on this occasion 
quite too full of his subject, to think much of the change. 
Though he knew that all the ruelle was listening, there was 
no trace of embarrassment in his manner as he answered, 
“ Monsieur Pascal was ill for more than a month. Or, rather, 
his malady increased; for his years of late have been but one 
long malady."" 

“No doubt Eoannez knew of it,"" said madame from her 
couch, in a tone of rather languid interest. “ Eoannez used 
to see a great deal of Monsieur Pascal some years ago. In 


88 


GEN-EVIEVE. 


fact, he had him continually about the house. Rather more 
than I quite approved, 1 must say, for I do hot like intimacies 
with people of that class. Still, this news overcomes me. 
Really, 1 feel quite faint. Genevieve, where is that new per- 
fume from Venice? You must fan me a little.’^ 

Genevieve sought the fan she had been using, but, noticing 
that mademoiselle had taken it up and was holding it before 
her face, she turned to the inlaid cabinet near the couch to 
procure another. Meanwhile madame resumed, “ I have no 
doubt that Roannez knew of his illness, and that he has made 
inquiries, and paid every proper attention, though he did not 
mention the circumstances to us.^^ 

“ I sent to the house of Monsieur Pascal to make inquiries,'’^ 
said the Due de la Feuillade, “ but 1 was informed that he had 
been removed to that of his sister, Madame Perier, in the Rue 
Neuve Saint-Etienne.’^ 

“ That is true, monsieur,'*^ said the abbe. “ His sister, who 
is tenderly attached to him, prayed him, when his illness be- 
gan, to allow her to come to him, and to give him the care he 
•needed. But a difficulty arose; he had taken into his house, 
out of charity, a destitute ^family, and one of the children un- 
happily was ill with the small-pox. Madame Perier, who has 
young children of her own, could not, on their account, run 
the risk of infection, nor would Monsieur Pascal have allowed 
it. Every one wauted to remove the boy, but to this he would 
not consent. ‘ The danger would be greater for him than for 
me,^ he said. And thus, with the hand of death upon him 
already, he was brought to the house of his sister.'’^* 

“ That was a fine trait of Christian charity,^^ said De la 
Feuillade with emotion. 

Genevieve noticed that the fan shook in the hand of made- . 
moiselle; while the old priest answered with simplicity, “ Do 
you think so. Monsieur le Due? It never occcurred to me. 
Because his whole life was just like that. TShroughout his 
illness nothing seemed to grieve him save the thought that, 
while he enjoyed every comfort the love of those around him 
could provide, there were many suffering equal pain, with the 
addition of poverty and the lack of all things. He would fain 
have been brought to the Hospital for Incurables, to die 
among the poor that he had loved so well during his life; but 
this his physician would not permit. Then he prayed Mon- 
sieur le Cure de St. Etienne, who was his constant visitor, to 

* A fact. Throughout, everything told about Pascal is strictly his- 
torical. 


f 


GENEVIEVE. 


89 


seek out some destitute sufferer, to whom, in his name and at 
his cost, all the comforts he had himself might be supplied for 
Christas sake. But the cure, who, like his sister and his phy- 
sician, thought he would re6over, advised him to have patience, 
until he could himself carry out his benevolent intentions. 

“ Then his death was not expected?^’ said madame. 

“No, madame, not until the very last — save by himself. 
From the beginning, he knew the truth; albeit, those around 
him, and even his devoted sister, were deceived, as pebple so 
often are in the case of a chronic invalid. Moreover, his own 
wonderful patience, and the calm that never left him, con- 
cealed ^from those around him the extent of his sufferings. 
Only two days before the end, every one was amazed when he 
himself suggested a consultation of physicians; although he 
did not fail to Md, almost in the same breath, ‘ 1 fear there 
may be too much self-seeking in this proposal. Never mind 
it. ^ You may be sure that, for all that, Madame Perier lost 
no time in summoning the physicians; but they still assured 
him there was no danger, ascribing the agonizing pain in the 
head from which he suffered to some temporary cause. 
Throughout his illness he had been longing to receive the 
Holy Sacrament; but in this, as in all else, he meekly yielded 
his wishes to the judgment of others. ‘ He is a child, he is 
humble and submissive as a child. ^ So the cure often said of 
this great man, whose scientific and literary fame has filled the 
land.^^ 

“ Would we were all more like himP^ said young D^En- 
traigues, as if to himself. 

With more feeling than she had shown hitherto, madame 
hoped that all was right at the end, and that there had been 
time “to administer the Holy Viaticum.’"’ Her soul, in- 
crusted in dead forms, was unable to rise to the thought that 
one who had been living in constant communion with Christ 
Himself had no need even of the ordinances of Christ for his 
safety, however they might conduce to his comfort. Still less 
did she or any one present, or Pascal himself, surmise that the 
ordinance of the Church to which they and he belonged were 
far from being the pure ordinances of Christ. Nevertheless, 
her words jarred upon the pious and tender heart of the old 
abbe. But he answered, “ Madame, God was gracious to His 
servant, and granted him such respite from the intensity of 
his sufferings that' he was able to receive every sacred rite in 
full consciousness and with much devotion. He thanked the 
cure, responded to his blessing with the words ‘May God 
never abandon me I’ and then devoutly praised Him for all 


90 


GENEVIEVE. 


His mercies. Almost immediately afterward, the death agony, 
which seemed suspended, set in with redoubled violence. It 
lasted all yesterday, and this morning, at the first hour after 
midnight, the ransomed spirit of Blaise Pascal returned to the 
God who gave it. May He in His mercy grant that our end 
may be like his!^^ 

“ Amen!"^ said He la Feuillade and D^Entraigues together. 
Again there was an interval of silence; while for once the gay 
ruelle became a place of solemn, perhaps of profitable, 
thought. 

“ No doubt he will have a distinguished funeral, observed 
another gentleman who was present. 

“ It will be distinguished by no pomp, such as the world 
loves, replied the abbe. “ What he hated during his life 
shall not surround him in his death. And indeed most of 
those who would have delighted to honor him are in captivity 
or exile, or scattered here and there. He will be laid, very 
quietly, in the Church of St. Etienne du Mont. But what 
will certainly follow him to his grave are the blessings of the 
poor, to whom he was a constant, though most unostentatious, 
benefactor.'’^ 

‘‘ Indeed,'’^ said madame, “ I knew that he thought a great 
deal about the poor. I remember he taught Roannez a prac- 
tice, which seemed to me very extravagant, of seeking out the 
most needy tradespeople to serve one, instead of those who 
can best do the work.'’^ 

“Monsieur le Cure has told me many things,^'’ said the 
abbe, “ but I must not trespass on your patience, madame. I 
shall only mention one, because it was so like him. One even- 
ing, at the door of St. Sulpice, he noticed a girl, young and 
beautiful, who was asking alms of the passers-by. He knew 
too well the snares a great city spreads for such, to content 
himself with the careless gift of a few sous. He took her by 
the hand, inquired carefully into her story, led her himself to 
the dwelling of a good old priest who lodged near at hand, 
gave him money to provide for her immediate necessities, and 
promised — 

He paused, for a priceless flask of Venetian glass, filled with 
the rarest perfume, had fallen from the hand of Genevieve, 
and lay in fragments on the inlaid floor. 

“ Careless, stupid child cried madame, in anger. “ See 
what thou hast done!^^ 

But Genevieve scarcely heard the words of the great lady — 
words that five minutes before would have shaken her in every 
nerve. She said, looking straight at the abbe, and lifting up 


i 


I' 


GEN'EVIEVE. 


91 


her tiQiicl young voice without fear in the midst of them all: 
“ I was that young girl.” 

“ And the charity that rescued you is fragrant as this per- 
fume, which, released by the breaking of its casket, fills the 
room/" said the old priest. “ So it is that when the saints are 
no longer with us we know what they have been."" 

Genevieve turned instinctively to mademoiselle. But her 
face was still hidden by the fan; and she gave no sign, not 
even by the movement of a hand. Was what she had 
guessed? 

There was a great cry in the ante-chamber, M. VArcheveque 
de Paris !” Every one was in motion. Pages and lackeys 
ran forward to assist him to alight from his carriage, to con- 
duct him to the rtielle^ and to announce his coming. Madame 
sat up to receive him, and made Genevieve place a fauteuil for 
hina beside her couch. She was not in the least disturbed or 
excited — that would have been hourgeoise — but she was very 
sensible of the honor done to her by the head of the Church, 
which was the first Order in the State. 

In the general stir that ensued, mademoiselle rose quietly 
and went toward the private door. She looked, Genevieve 
thought, like one walking in her sleep. Her large dark eyes 
— larger and darker from the marble paleness of her face — 
were wide open, but they seemed as if they saw nothing. 
Nothing near her, at least, for Genevieve feared she would 
strike herself against the post of the bed, and sprung forward 
to help her, as at the same time did also M. de la Feuillade. 
He reached her first, and offered her his arm. But she re- 
jected it with something like a shudder, gained the door, and 
passed out, happily unnoticed by her mother, whose eyes were 
fixed on the advancing figure of her distinguished visitor. 

In the interchange of compliments,, an4 the witty and 
brilliant conversation that followed, madame was so thor- 
oughly engrossed that it was some time before she observed 
the absence of her daughter. 

When she did so, she felt extremely angry; but she was far 
too much a woman of the world to betray her wrath. She 
continued her conversation with the archbishop, making no 
allusion to her recalcitrant daughter, and trusting it would 
not occur to him to inquire after her. If he had, she would 
have told him unblushingly that she was staying with her 
cousins, the Gouffiers of Marteaud, at their chateau in Poitou, 
l^ut she was not called upon to exercise her imagination, 
for monseigneur forbore to make any inquiries, either from 


9^ 


GEK’EYlllVE. 


accident, or much more probably because he knew he could 
not be a welcome visitor to the pupil of Port Royal. 

And thus the world, with its pomps and vanities, resumed 
its reign, which had been interrupted for a brief space, in the 
ruelle of Mme. la Duchesse. The courtly and fashionable 
prelate was none the less the representative of the world be- 
cause he was styled the head of the Church dn his native land. 
It was “ the world which men call the Church,’"’ and which 
was then, as it ever has been and ever will be, the persecutor 
of the true church, whether within its own communion or 
without it. Mgr. de ' Paris lived in luxury and died in 
splendor; while the pious nuns of Port Royal were enduring 
cruel persecutions in the convents, where, by his orders, they 
had been imprisoned, always under the control and direction 
of their bitterest enemies. Nor had the recluses been spared 
any more than the nuns; they were either in concealment or 
in prison; while the excellent schools, for which Port Royal 
had been so famous, were broken up, and all the other works 
of charity of which it had been long the center were destroyed. 

Nor did Pascal escape his share of what was truly “ the 
reproach of Christ.” The Cure of St. Etienne, who had given 
him the last rites of the Church, was called in question for his 
temerity, and reprimanded, narrowly’ escaping severe punish- 
ment. For was not the author of the “ Provincial Letters ” 
under grave suspicion of heresy? How foolish it would have 
been — and men like the Archbishop of Paris are seldom foolish 
in that sense — to persecute poor priests and simple women, 
and to reserve no thunders for the arch-oRender, the great 
champion of Port Royal, and foe of the Jesuits, who had done 
them more harm by those eighteen immortal “ Little Letters ” 
than all their other adversaries in ponderous fftlios of forgotten 
controversy! 

Happily, Pascal was beyond the malice of his enemies. But 
he knew, before his death, that they had procured the con- 
demnation of the “ Provincial Letters ” from the pope. He 
had the courage to write, in reference to this, words that 
should never be forgotten: “ If my letters are condemned in 
Rome, what I condemn there is condemned in heaven. To 
Thy tribunal. Lord Jesus, I appeal.” Pascal denounced 
Protestantism because he never knew it; yet the very essence 
of Protestantism breathes in these noble words. What, in 
fact, is Protestantism but the appeal of the divinely enlight- 
ened individual conscience from human authority straight to 
the tribunal of Christ Himself? 


GEKEVIEVE. 


93 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A FOUNTAI^r SEALED. 

Go from me!— yet I feel that I shall stand ' 

Henceforward in thy shadow. Never more, 

Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 

Without the sense of that which I forbore — 

Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part us leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do. 

And what I dream, include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes; and when I sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine. 

And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 

E. B. Browning. 

Death is not always the worst kind of parting, but it is 
always a kind of parting unlike any other. There may be 
farewells more bitter, and more hopeless, exchanged between 
the living than those that are sobbed out over open graves, 
jg'- And yet they differ. Among the endless varieties of pain 

S ':- human hearts are called to hear, no other pain quite resembles 
: that of knowing a beloved soul has gone forth before us into 
the unseen. . There is a new sense of awe and strangeness as 
the baffled thought, that fain would follow, strikes its wings 
against that impalpable, impenetrable barrier, from beyond 
which no voice nor answer comes to us for evermore. Even 
the familiar, visible things which are around us, and upon 
which we are thrown back so sorrowfully, assume a changed, 
unfamiliar aspect when we know that beloved eyes look upon 
them no longer. 

Something of this change and strangeness, of this awe and 
mystery, may be felt at the departure of one whom we never 
hoped to see again — nay, whom we have nqver seen at all in 
the flesh. It is possible to feel the world poorer and barer, 
the sunshine less bright, and the landscape less fair, because 
some one has “ gone over to the majority whose life only 
touched ours as soul touches soul, through high thoughts in- 
spired and holy lessons taught. But if to the spiritual tie be 
added one wliich is intensely, intimately personal, then indeed 
regret becomes agony. Then indeed the heart is pierced — the 
whole being quivers to its depths. 



94 


GENEVIEVE. 


On the day jifter the levee of madame, Charlotte Goufhr de 
Roannez sat alone in her bare little room, which was more 
like the cell of a nun than the boudoir of a great lady, and 
yet was the only room in her splendid mansion that seemed to 
her at all like home. The casement was open, looking out 
upon the garden with its formal flower beds, its trim rows of 
shrubs cut into fantastic shapes, and its fountain of sculptiped 
marble which was sending up a cool and welcome spray into 
the sultry air of the August afternoon. Her sad eyes rested 
upon all these with a long and wistful gaze, and then returned 
to dwell yet longer and more intently on the little table dlose 
at hand. For there lay a small packet of letters, with the 
ribbon which bound them unfastened, and one of them opened 
as if for perusal. The garden scene without, the letters be- 
fore her, seemed to her the symbols of the two halves of her 
life, or rather of the two lives through which she had lived, 
both of them intense and fervid, one of them passionate. 

Before either began there had been an earlier existence, for 
life she would not call it. At best it was only a child^s life, 
and not even that of a thoughtful child whose faculties have 
been drawn out and cultivated. So she deemed now; but per- 
haps she was unjust to her earlier self, so poor and bare did all 
things seem before there came to her the splendor and the 
magic light that flooded her dawning womanhood with glory. 

She was scarcely older than Genevieve was now when first 
her brother — six years her senior, but still very young — 
brought home with him his chosen friend, already known to 
the world as a great scientific and mathematical genius. 
Pascal was not merely admitted to formal receptions at the 
Hotel de Roannez— when the salon over which madame pre- 
sided with such grace and dignity was thrown open to the 
haute noblesse, and also, under certain well-understood restric- 
tions, to eminent men of letters — he enjoyed the far more 
unusual privilege of a private intimacy with the family; he 
dined, and, what was thought a much greater honor, he even 
supped with them. At last he almost lived beneath their 
roof. Even the very definiteness of the barrier which in those 
days separated the haute noblesse from the haute bourgeoisie 
favored in some respects this unrestricted intercourse. Things 
that are fully understood do not jequire to be emphasized; 
and, as a general rule, where no danger is apprehended no 
precautions are taken. 

So Charlotte was allowed to listen, with the keen enjoyment 
of an eager girl, to the talk of her brother and his fi’iend — 
talk which sparkled with wit and genius, each word and 


GEKEVIEVE. 


95 


phrase a crystal cup^ in which the wine of thought gave forth 
its color and moved itself aright. Sometimes they spoke of 
the new philosophy of Descartes, or of the new astronomy of 
Copernicus; or they discussed the laws of sound and motion, 
the secrets of earth and air, which were then beginning to 
reveal themselves to the patient questioning of minds trained 
in habits of careful investigation. Even more often ,the mys- 
teries of human life and character engaged their thoughts. 
They were no great students, it is true, of the classic page; 
bu^ noble thought or noble deed, wherever read or heard of, 
was sure of recognition and admiration. 

Nor were lighter themes forgotten, or gayer scenes forsaken. 
Those evenings — when the great salon vert blazed with a hun- 
dred wax-lights, when the perfume of rare flowers, and the 
music of the guitar and the theorbe* floated on the air — were 
uplifted from the level prose of frivolity into the poetry of 
passion because in all the brilliant assembly Mile, de Roannez 
saw only one face, heard only one voice. 

Dearer still were the promenades, sanction^ oddly enough 
by the etiquette of the time, in other respects so stringent. 
That parterre on which her sad eyes were resting now, as its 
flowers faded beneath the pitiless August sun, used to be 
trodden then by her young and happy feet, keeping pace with 
the graver steps of one whose very presence inspired all noble 
thought, until at last for her it came to be that 

“ Star and flower grew dim and dead, 

Save at his feet or o’er his head.” 

What she felt in those days of enchantment was whispered 
in no human ear, nor was it intrusted to the silent confidence 
of the written page. What he felt, we are able to guess from 
the beautiful, burning fragment which gives us such a strange, 
unexpected glance into the very heart of the grave, ascetic 
author of the “ Provincial Letters and the “ Pensees.^^ 

The “ Discourse on the Passions of Love must have come 
from a heart of fire, such fire as slumbers in the depths of a 
great diamond like the Koh-i-noor, “ answering all possibilities 
of gaze, and overpowering the eye intent on its deeper mys- 
teries. No troubadour of medieval times knew how to love as 
did this pupil of Port Royal. The very spirit of chivalry 
breathes in his words — “ The first effect of love is to inspire a 
great reverence; we venerate what we love. This is very just; 
we do not recognize anything in the world so grand as this. 
A wandering love is as monstrous as a distorted reason. 

* A theu fasliionable musical instrument. 


.96 


GENEVIEVE. 


When we love^ we seem to have quite another soul than when 
we do not love; the passion elevates us, and we become all 
greatness. And again — “One, often loves that which does 
not know itself beloved/^ he writes; “ and one keeps an in- 
violable fidelity to the beloved, though the beloved should 
never know it. But such love should be very noble and very 
pure.^^ We can not doubt that he wrote here the story of his 
own love; though we may doubt whether he did not afterward 
come to know what, when he wrote, was still hidden from 
him. 

Another doubt there is, which must forever remain un- 
solved. Bid he learn first the bitter lesson that love, for- 
bidden by inexorable social laws, could never ‘ ‘ find its earthly 
close,^^ and then come with his burden of sorrow and dis- 
appointment to the feet of the Great Burden-bearer? Or did 
he first surrender earthly hope, counting this also but loss that 
he might win Christ? For thus only could he win Him, as he 
thought in his mistaken reading of the Divine Word. We 
have no means of knowing; for those records of the past, 
which have guided us thus far fail us here. 

This only we do know, upon the testimony of the sister who 
loved him so truly, and watched so tenderly beside his death- 
bed — he surrender^ the idea of marriage, which she was well 
aware that at one time he had entertained. Finally, to use 
her own quaint, fnrmal words, “ he took the resolution of 
absolutely quitting the world, so that he resolved to quit 
entirely the conversations of the world, and to retrench all the 
superfiuities of life, even to the peril of his health, because he 
believed salvation to be preferable to all things. 

In the silence that followed the execution of his stern re- 
solve, we can not tell how God dealt with this tender and noble 
spirit, which by such strange paths He was leading to Him- 
self. There are hints of a period of conflict and anguish, even 
almost of despair. The great water-floods prevailed against 
him; we can hear their surging even yet in some of the letters 
that remain to us, and in some passages of the immortal “ Pen- 
sees. But, after an interval, a cry comes forth to us out of 
the darkness. It is a cry of joy. Light has shone through 
the gloom; the storm- tossed soul has found its resting-place, 
to lose it no more forever. A fragment of parchment, which 
was sewed into the doublet of Pascal, and worn next his heart 
until his death,* bears these mystic, burning words: 

* Sometimes foolishly called “ TJie Amulet of Pascal.” It did not 
partake in the least of the nature of an amulet. 


GEIgEVIEVE. 


97 


“ God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob-— 

Kot of the philosophers and the savans — 

Certainty, Certainty: Experience. Joy. Peace. 

God of Jesus Christ! 

‘ Deus meum, et Deus vestrum ’ — 

Thy God shall be my God — 

Oblivion of the world and all except God, 

He is only found in the paths taught by the Gospel, 
Grandeur of the human soul ! — 

‘ Holy Father, the world hath not known Thee, but I 
have known Thee ’ — 

Joy — joy— tears of joy!” 

This, with what follows, reads like a passionate, though un- 
formed and uncompleted, hymn of praise. Probably it was so 
intended, and meant also to be a confession of faith, and a 
deed of self -dedication, since it closes with the words, “ I will 
not forget Thy covenant. Amen.^^ But, although the form 
— intended . as it was for no eye save his own — may have to 
other eyes a strange and even a perplexing look, the import is 
abundantly clear. Pascal had found Christ; or rather, he 
had been found of Him, since, to use his own words — words 
which have comforted many an anxious soul — “Thou 
wouldest not be seeking Him if He had not already found 
thee.^^ The joy that came to him then was his share of “ the 
wine of life,'’^ his portion in the land of the living; an abun- 
dant recompense for all he had surrendered and all he had 
suffered. 

He could not rest without sharing that joy with ^ose he 
loved best. One of his sisters, the admirable Jacqueline Pas- 
cal, was already a nun of Port Royal, and supposed to be far 
before him in the Christian course; while, from the brief 
memoir of him written by Mme. Perier, we may gather the 
nature of his intercourse with her. But it was to be expected 
that for the conversion of the Due de Roannez and his sister, 
all his influence, and all the resources of his genius, would be 
employed. Pascal’s idea of conversion involved and included 
abandonment of the world, with all its common occupations 
and interests. It is due to him to explain that tie did not 
think this was conversion — he and all his school perfectly un- 
derstood the necessity of a real turning of the heart to (jod — 
but he thought it the indispensable outward sign and expres- 
sion of conversion. 

How he pleaded with his friend Roannez we do not certainly 
know.* But we have still the letters — nine in number — 

* It has been supposed by many that the ” Discourse on the Condi- 
tion of the Great ” was addressed to the Due de Roannez. But this is 
doubtful. 


98 GENEVIEVE. 

which he addressed to mademoiselle. It need not be said that 
they are as free from any touch of earthly passion as if they 
were written from beyond the grave. Yet here and there — 
through their grand severity of thought, through their care- 
fully tempered friendliness of tone — we seem to discern faint 
glimmerings of the fire beneath, suppressed and stifled, yet 
not wholly quenched. 

It is these letters which now lie before her on the table. As 
her sad and dreamy eyes turn again to their cherished pages 
which are now her dearest earthly treasure, her new and later 
life comes back to her. Through what sorrow and disappoint- 
ment — through what “ dull, deep pain, and constant anguish 
of patience ” — she reached that later, calmer life, as a ship- 
wrecked mariner reaches the shore, none knew, none could 
even guess. She bore through all a still face and silent lips, 
for this is woman^s destiny — always more or less, most of all 
when noblesse oblige. But the shades of Port Royal, where 
she sought and found a welcome refuge, soothed her pain; and 
gradually peace and rest came to the scholar as they had done 
to the teacher — though perhaps never so completely. She too 
learned to know Him whom to know is life eternal, and to 
count all things but loss that she might win Him. Still, her 
nature — not more sensitive than PaacaPs but far frailer — was 
more fatally shattered by the conflict through which she 
passed. 

She too had imbibed the theory that all merely natural feel- 
ing must be crushed down and crushed out. But in attempt- 
ing to put this theory into practice she was attempting the 
impossible. She knew this now, if she had never known it 
before. JLn spite of conflict and sorrow, in spite of pain and 
patience and penitence, the old life was not wholly dead; it 
lived and throbbed yet within her breaking heart — that heart 
which knew itself desolate, because the only voice that had ever 
awakened its deeper echoes was silent in the grave. From 
the pile of letters, worn with many persuals and blistered with 
some burning tears, she chose one, the 'one she loved best, 
although — or perhaps because — it was the saddest of all. 
This was what she read: 

“It is very certain that one can not detach one^s self with- 
out pain. We do not feel a bond when we follow willingly 
him who draws us, but when we begin to resist and to with- 
draw toe suffer much; the bond is strained, and endures all 
the tension. Before God has touched us, we have only the 
weight of the flesh, which draws us to the earth. When God 
draws us upward, the two contrary impulses cause the strug- 


GENEVIEVE. 99 

gle, in which God only can make us overcome. ‘ But we can 
do all things/ says St. Lpo, ‘ with Him, without whom we 
can do nothing.^ We must then resolve to endure this con- 
flict all our lives; there is no peace here. . Jesus has come to 
bring, not peace, but a sword. But as the wisdom of God is 
foolishness with man, so this war which appears so hard to 
man is peace with God, for this peace Christ has also brought. 
But it will only be perfect when the body is destroyed; and 
this is what makes death desirable, though meanwhile we en- 
dure life with a willing heart, for His sake who for ours has 
endured both life and death, and who is able to give us more 
than we can ask or think. 

Far beyond his thought and asking had He surely given even 
then to that noble, struggling spirit, in which such intense and 
passionate love to Him, and such strong resolve to do His will, 
were weighted with such grave practical mistakes as to what 
that will required. Surely He accepted the sacrifice, though 
He had never asked it, and crowned the faithful though mis- 
taken servant with His pitying, approving — “ Thou didst well 
in that it was in tlime heart.” 

But Charlotte could not see just then the victory or the 
crown; she could only see the sacrifice and the grave. 

Truly, ‘ we suffer much,^ and death is indeed ‘ desirable,^ 
she murmured, looking sadly up from the letter and out u2)ou 
the sunny garden plot. “ Why, I wonder, has God given us 
hearts with such an infinite capacity for suffering? But, per- 
chance, this wondering even is a sin. We must not wonder 
or question, we must keep silence, and put our mouths in the 
dust. For we ourselves are but dust — dust and ashes. 

* The relations of Pascal with Mile, de Koannez must, of course, he 
more or less a matter of conjecture. But those who have followed the 
narrative briefly and tentatively indicated above, may read with interest 
the accompanying extract from the excellent “ Histoire de France,” by 
Henri; “ Pascal soon conceived at Paris a passion more profound for a 
young person of high birth, daughter of that Due de Roannez whom 
we have seen, under Richelieu, sharing the plots and the exile of the 
Duke of Orleans. Everything leads us to believe that he was loved. Love, 
in the life of Descartes, was of so little consequence that the historian 
scarcely takes note of it. In the life of Pascal love is an essential ele- 
ment, the nexus of the drama; 'and we owe to it one of the most pre- 
cious monuments of the genius of this great man. For some moments 
Pascal bowed beneath' the yoke, the gentle rays of Sunium illuminated 
a brow shadowed with the mournful speculations of Zeno and St. 
Augustine; and there fell from his pen, or rather from his heart, that 
‘ Discourse on the Passions of Love ' which, escaping as by a miracle 
from the severity of the Jansenists has been recently given back to 
France. After a brief analysis of the “ Discourse, ” the historian thus 


GENEVIEVE. 


lOOj 


OHAPTEE XV. 

THE FOUNTAIN OPENED. 

He assigns 

All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, 

For younger fellow-workers of the soil 
To wear as amulets. 

E. B. Browning. 

There was a low, timid knock at the door. It had come 
twice before, but had failed to reach the ears that were dull 
with sorrow. 

At last mademoiselle heard, and responded mechanically. 

Come in.’’ 

The door opened softly, and Genevieve stood before her, 
with a pale, agitated face, bearing traces of many tears. 

So much was plain, even to the heavy, tearless eyes that 
witnessed to a deeper anguish. 

“ What is the matter?” asked mademoiselle, less perhafis 
in genuine sympathy than in fidelity to the stringent rule that 
allowed no respite from the claims of others even to the break- 
ing heart. 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, forgive me!” sobbed the girl, coming 
nearer and kneeling at her feet. “ Mademoiselle told me I 
might come to her if I was in any trouble. I am in sore 
trouble now.” 

“ Stand up, my child! It is not fitting you should kneel to 
me. Sit, rather, on this footstool. That is right,” as Gene- 
vieve obeyed mechanically, from the instinct of obedience. 
“Now tell me what it is. Is madame angry with you?” 

Oh, no! It is something far worse than that. Some- 
thing terrible.” 

“ Have you lost anything? or been falsely accused by any 
one? Take courage, dear, and tell me.” 

continues: “ The ray of glory returns to heaven; bitterness and mourn- 
ing resume their pressure upon the heart which had expanded for a mo- 
ment. We know nothing of the secret drama which induced the catas- 
trophe. No doubt the prejudices of rank separated those whom Nature 
had united; and the dreams of happiness were stifled silently, without 
noise, without complaint, without anything that the world knew of. 
There was, for Pascal, a period of transition full of darkness and agony, 
after which we find him, once more and for the last time, transformed.” 
With reference to Pascal’s subsequent correspondence with 3Ille. de 
Koannez, M. Martin says it is “altogether religious; but beneath the 
austerity one feels the tenderness.” 


GENEVIEVE. 101 

‘ ‘ It is not about myself, mademoiselle. It is something 1 
have just heard — about one who is dear to me. 

A sympathetic quiver ran through the frame of made- 
moiselle. It could not surely be the tidings of yesterday 
which caused this grief? No; it was evidently something 
more intimate, more personal. 

“ How can that be?^^ she questioned. “ I understood that 
you had no living relatives — at least, none who were near to 
you; and no friends, except the nurse Euphemie and Pere 
Antoine. Explain yourself, my child. 

“ 1 was in the little salon, serving madame and some ladies 
who were paying their afternoon visits, with chocolate and 
oubliettes. * They were talking, as usual, about many great 
people. ” 

“ I have told you before, Genevieve, that you would do more 
wisely in such cases not to listen. 

“ I do try, mademoiselle, but sometimes I can not help 
hearing. Yesterday, for instance, at the levh of madame, 
when I heard — ” 

“ Do not speak of yesterday, said mademoiselle, quickly. 
“ Tell me what you heard to-day, which has grieved you so 
much.^^ 

“The ladies talked of this great personage and that; 1 
scarcely heeded, and now I do not remember. But at last I 
caught the name oi Monsieur le Due de Graffont. Madame 
la Marquise de Clermont-Tonnerre was saying that he had 
never been the same since — since the death of his nephew. 

“ Still I do not understand you. Try to be calm, my child, 
and to explain to me what yoii, can have to do with the nephew 
of Monsieur de Graffont. 

“ Oh, but, mademoiselle, it is Edouard 

“ Edouard? You speak thus of him? This is stranger 
still. 

“ Edouard de Sercourt, mademoiselle. My father was his 
guardian, and he was his adopted son. We were brought up 
together as brother and sister. We never thought to be 
parted, until Monsieur le Due sent for Edouard to make him 
a great noble. And now they say — they say he is dead ! Mur- 
dered — cruelly murdered — by the faux sauniers. Oh, made- 
moiselle, it is horrible! I can not bear it!’^ 

“ My child, we must bear the will of God. But I can not 
wonder at your emotion, since you hear this thing to-day for 


* A fashionable kind of cake. 


102 


GENEVIEVE. 


the first time. That is rather what I wonder at, for the sad 
event was known in Paris several months ago. 

“ No one told me; no one knew that I had any right to 
care. But 1 have such right, mademoiselle, for we were broth- 
er and sister always. And he was so good — so kind! The 
world is all changed to me now, and I do not care to live in it 
any more said the girl, impetuously, the words dying away 
in a sob. 

My child, it is wrong to say that, and foolish, too.^^ 

“ Wrong and foolish it may be, but it is true/’ said Gene- 
vieve, with the sudden sharp despair of the very young. 
‘‘ Though we were separated so long, still 1 always felt that 
he was somewhere in God^s world with me, and that one day 
we should meet again. ” 

“ You were not likely to meet again, even if this thing had 
not happened, said mademoiselle. “ The customs and preju- 
dices of the world — which you are as yet too young fully to 
understand — would no doubt have hindered that. And, Gene- 
vieve, my child, do you not know that your old playfellow is 
still in God’s world? We may trust — may we not? — that he 
is in His presence now.” 

“ Yes, mademoiselle,” said Genevieve, wearily. This was 
a sort of comfort she could not grasp as yet. 

“ I am able to tell you something consoling,” mademoiselle 
continued. “You know that, unfortunately. Monsieur de 
Sercourt was a Protestant; but I have heard that he desired 
admission to the Church, and that only his death prevented 
his obtaining it. When the sacraments are truly desired, but 
can not be obtained, God graciously accepts the intention.” 

All this well-meant consolation fell unheeded upon the sor-^ 
rowful heart of Genevieve. They were but words — vain, empty 
words! What could such avail for her, or for the dear friend 
and brother whose bright young life had been so cruelly 
snapped asunder, like a flower snapped from its stalk? Could 
they take away the vision of that fair head laid low in the 
dust? — a vision that would haunt her evermore, and shut out 
all else from her sight. In coming to mademoiselle for com- 
fort, she had cherished, half unconsciously, some vague, faint 
hope that she might contradict the story. A thing so horrible 
could scarce be true; and mademoiselle, who knew everything, 
would know all the truth, and would tell it to her. Now this 
hope was no more, and the blackness of darkness seemed to 
gather round her. She said nothing— what use was there in 
words? but a low, pitiful, broken-hearted wail, like that of 


GENEVIEVE. 103 

some gentle, helpless creature in distress, stole unawares from 
her quivering lips. 

All Charlotte’s youth came back to her at the sound and the 
sight of that passionate., unreflecting abandonment of youthful 
sorrow. Just such a girl, scarce older in years or in char- 
acter, she had yielded herself heart and soul to the spell with 
which a great genius drew her up into his own distapt starry 
sphere — a tiny planet circling round a splendid sun. Nor was 
it long until for her also the sun was eclipsed, and her life 
went out with it into darkness. 

“ Genevieve,” she said, very, softly, and in quite a different 
voice — “ Genevieve!” 

. Even in her anguish, the girl looked up surprised. It did 
not seem to her the voice of mademoiselle. Nor did the face 
into which she looked seem less altered. All the stately calm, 
all the proud reserve, had melted from it, and only the heart 
of a loving, suffering woman looked forth to meet her from 
those dark, yearning eyes. 

“ Genevieve,” she repeated, softly, opening wide her arms 
— “ little Genevieve, come to me. I too have suffered.” 

Feeling almost as if she had found again the dear shelter of 
her mother’s arms, Genevieve obeyed, and soon was sobbing 
all her sorrows out upon a heart which was none the less warm 
and tender because it was cased in penitential hair-cloth. 

Presently an impulse of sheer astonishment checked her 
weeping. Mademoiselle was heaving sob for sob, shedding 
tear for tear; only the tears were' slower and more bitter and 
the sobs shook her whole frame with their agitation. That 
was not sympathy; it was something far different, far deeper. 

Awed by what she saw, Genevieve half forgot her own 
trouble in her longing to soothe this strange sorrow. That the 
grand, calm, stately mademoiselle should be weeping like a 
child upon her shoulder, was a thing almost unbelievable; it 
looked like a dream. Was it a dream, with all that had gone 
before it? — with all the strange things she had heard to-day, 
and yesterday? 

At length, however, the strong character of the older wom- 
an asserted itself. “You have done me good, Genevieve,” 
she said, “ 1 had not wept — since yesterday. It is no sin to 
weep when our friends go home to God. No sin to weep, 
though it is a sin to lament. Yes, and a folly too. For he is 
only gone whither he longed to go.” 

“I can not think that is quite true, mademoiselle,” said 
Genevieve, thinking of Edouard, while mademoiselle was think- 
ing of another. “ You could scarcely expect a gallant, hap- 


104 


GENEVIEVE. 


py-hearted youn^ nobleman’, with everything to make his life 
bright, to die and go to heaven, however good he might be. 
And he Was good, although he was a Protestant. He was true 
and tender, and gentle as a woman, although he was so braye 
and strong.'’^ 

Mademoiselle brought back her thoughts with an effort to 
Edouard de Sercourt. 

God does not give the same grace to all,^'’ she said; “ we 
may not judge or measure His ways, but we may trust Him. 
And now, dear Genevieve, try and listen while I tell you how 
you may find comfort in this sorrow. I too have sorrowed — 
and I am comforted. At least, she added, afraid, and very 
justly, of going beyond the truth, “ I shall be comforted. So 
will you, if you offer yourself and your sorrow up to God. For 
then the blessed Saviour, the great Healer of Sorrows, will 
come to you and dwell in your heart. He will take away your 
sin, and your sorrow too — now in its sting and bitterness, 
hereafter fully and forever. He will satisfy all your longing 
— for does He not say Himself, ‘ I have satiated the weary 
soul, and I have replenished every sorrowful soul?’ But you 
must come to Him for this, my child.” 

“Teach me to come to Him as you have done, made- 
moiselle. ” 

“ No; oh, no! Not as L God knows I am far from per- 
fect, even yet, in the path of renunciation. But at least the 
first lessons of the little child are simple and easy. Trust 
yourself in the arms of the Good Shepherd, even as now you 
rest in mine. He will lead you into that death of self which 
is truly life in Him.” 

Those were good and true words which the child of Port 
Eoyal spoke to her sorrowing friend, insomuch as they held 
up Christ before her; even although they were not untainted 
with the inveterate error of her school — the doctrine of re- 
nunciation misplaced and misinterpreted. 

After some further talk, and it may be some more tears 
shed together, the friends, as they might now perhaps for the 
first time be truly called, went each her separate way. Each 
carried with her, hidden in her heart, a secret about the other. 
Mademoiselle, as she pondered over all that Genevieve had 
said, and not said, could not but surmise that for her this bit- 
ter sorrow was really a blessing in disguise. Chiefly, of course, 
because she hoped it would be the means, under God, of her 
“ conversion;” but also because the feelings she had evident- 
ly, though quite unconsciously, allowed to grow up in her 
lieart toward this young nobleman, might lead to complica- 


GENEVIEVE. 


105 


tions which would cause her misery and disappointment in 
after years. 

Genevieve, on her part, though she surmised — nay, though 
perhaps she knew — a great deal, did not venture to trust, even 
to the echoes in which her heart gave back its own whisper- 
ings, aught more than this: “ Mademoiselle has loved and 
suffered. 1 think she suffers still — God comfort her!^^ 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE "^EAUX SAUNTERS.’’ 

There is dust on his sunny brow, 

And over his graceful head. 

Hemans. 


Not long afterward, mademoiselle learned something more 
about the young Marquis de Sercourt, something which Gene- 
vieve did not know, and of which, upon reflection, she thought 
it best to leave her for the present in ignorance. For it scarce- 
ly afforded a rational, well-grounded hope that he was still 
alive, although it threw over his last days (if, indeed, he were 
dead) the light of a noble impulse and a generous purpose. 
During an unwilling attendance at one of her mother’s even- 
ing receptions, she heard of the capture, in Auvergne, of a 
daring and notorious faux saunier. This desperate smuggler 
and murderer was, according to the barbarous fashion of the 
times, condemned to the wheel; but he passionately entreated 
to be brought to Paris to die, and to be permitted an interview 
with the Due de Graffont, as he had important revelations to 
make to him. It was the due’s return to Paris which had 
brought up his name in conversation on the day Genevieve 
heard the mention of Edouard; he was now restored ostensibly 
to the good graces of the king, though not really forgiven, for 
Louis the Magnificent never forgave. 

The prayer of the faux saunier was granted, and the due 
received the information that his nephew was not dead. His 
life, it was said, had been spared, and, moreover, he had been 
nursed through a long illness, the consequence of the wound 
he had received, by an old woman, the prisoner’s grandmoth- 
er, who seemed to exercise a peculiar kind of influence, almost 
of authority, over the lawless band. After his recovery he 
had escaped out of their hands, probably by her connivance, 
and no one knew what had become of him. 

But she retained, and had given to her grandson, two 
papers, which he now produced. One of these purported to 


106 


GENEVIEVE. 


be in Edouard^s own handwriting — a promise scribbled with a 
pencil on a leaf torn from his pocket-book, that he would not 
prosecute any of the gang, but that, on the contrary, if any 
were taken, he would endeavor to procure their pardon. The 
other was a letter of some length, addressed to him, which 
had been found upon his person, and kept by the old woman. 

The Due de Graffont, when he heard this story, did not for 
a moment believe that his nephew was still alive. If the 
words penciled on that scrap of paper were genuine, and not 
forged, he thought they had been obtained from him before 
his death by fair means or by foul. But the letter which had 
been found in his possession was certainly genuine, and though 
not of greater interest, was possibly of more importance. 
The Due de GraSont, now doubly bereaved, knew that hand- 
writing only too well. He took the soiled and crumpled paper 
from the prisoner with a sigh, and, in spite of his incredulity, 
was sufficiently moved to promise that he would procure him 
a reprieve, which, if evidence could be obtained to corroborate 
his story, might result in a pardon. 

What the letter contained he kept fast locked in his own 
heart. It was from his disowned, rebellious son, whose name 
for five years had never passed his lips, -though all who were 
near his person knew well that it was rarely absent from his 
thoughts. He might banish the rebel from his home, and de- 
prive him of his fortune, but he could not drive him from his 
heart. 

We are privileged to know what was so Jealously hidden 
from the world. We may look over the shoulder of the sor- 
rowing nobleman, as, locked in his private cabinet, he reads 
once and again, and not without the slow, reluctant tears of 
age, the words addressed to his favorite nephew by his still- 
loved, though graceless and ungrateful son. 

The letter, which bore neither date nor address, ran thus: 

‘‘Monsieur, my Cousin, — Since that accidental meeting 
which I had with you in the Fencing Academy at the Marais, 
during my stolen visit to Paris, I have known you as a young 
man of the finest honor, and endowed with a feeling and gen- 
erous heart. Your desire to serve me — so unexpected in the 
man who, of all others, has gained by my ruin — moves me to 
address you. First, I shall trouble you with a few words of 
explanation. My father, I well know, will never name me in 
your hearing; but your fashionable acquaintances (who were 
mine also) and the household will not imitate his reticence. 
So I wish you to know truly — what they are certain to mis- 


GENEVIEVE. 


107 


represent— the real cause of my disgrace. I need not de- 
scribe, nor shall I seek to extenuate, my youthful escapades. 
There will be plenty to tell you of them, and especially of the 
debts which I made at lassette.* I had always very ill-luck 
at play, which was the more unfortunate, because I was pas- 
sionately fond of it. My father, to do him j ustice, paid my 
debts, and forgave me oftener than I care to remember now. 
Such mischances, tlioiigh they might have occasioned quarrel^ 
between us, would never have moved him to disinherit me. 

“ My real offense was my clandestine marriage with Mile, 
de Bauny. Well, I can not deny that I broke into the con- 
vent where she was a boarder, carried her off with some show 
of violence, and bribed a luckless rascal of a priest, who was 
out at elbows, to marry us upon the cross of my sword, f Of 
course, her family, whom my father holds in the highest con- 
sideration, were all furious; and perhaps it may be thought 
that 1 did not take the best means of soothing their irritation 
when 1 attempted to throw her brother out of a window. Still, 
what business had he to follow us? When a thing is done, it 
is done. It was foolish to make a scandal about it, and to get 
a lettre de cachet^&xom the king. I had no desire to see the 
interior of the Bastille, so I slipped away to Holland; but, un- 
happily, 1 had to leave my poor little bride behind me at Metz, 
with an old dependent of her own family, who promised to 
take good care of her. Poor Marguerite — how beautiful she 
was, and how innocent and good! Mere convent-bred child 
though she seemed, there was a quite wonderful stateliness 
and serenity about her; you felt you had to bow down before 
her in your heart. Certainly she was too good for me — and 
therefore, I suppose, we were separated. Heaven knows where 
she is now. She is as good as ever, no doubt, but 1 fear her 
beauty is ruined ; for the first tidings from old Filleul that fol- 
lowed me to Holland were that small-pox was raging in Metz, 
and that she had taken it. A second letter informed me that 
she was recovering; but that her family had found out where 
she was, and would probably compel her to return to them, 
or place her in a convent. 

“ So, monsieur, my cousin, you perceive the height and 
depth of my ill-luck. Wiser men than I have bartered a 
fortune for a fair face; but then, they have got what they 
wanted. I have lost all, and gained nothing. But I am not 
complaining. I desire — I own that 1 desire most earnestly — 

* A kind of play then much in vogue with fashionable gamblers. 

f This was done at the time by a young man of rank and fashion. 


108 


GENEVIEVE. 


to be reconciled to my father. But my difficulty is this: no 
eloquence of mine could persuade him that 1 desire it from 
disinterested motives, and therefore he would certainly reject 
me. 1 must wait. 

“ In Holland I endured misery enough. One day I was in 
a gaming-house, staking my last coin — my very last — when I 
heard those around me talking of a project to restore the King 
of England. * 1 had known his majesty very well in France, 
having quaffed many a cup and exchanged many a jest with 
him in the olden times. He was always a merry, kind- 
hearted gentleman, with no pride about him, and a good com- 
rade to those he liked. So I went to him, and offered him 
my sword as a volunteer. 1 was graciously accepted — and 
here 1 find myself in England! 

“ But there was no fighting, worse luck for me! If we had 
even had a brush with the ‘ Eoundheads,^ as they call them, 
I might have done something to earn a commission in his maj- 
esty’s army. As it is, I am little better off in London than I 
was at the Hague. I have had, once or twice, fair words from 
the king, when I threw myself in his way, during his daily 
walk in the park. But no man can live .upon fair words; 
while he, poor gentleman! has nothing. else to spare to me, 
since two score needy beggars of his own nation are clamoring 
around him for every place he has to bestow. So, to speak 
plainly, monsieur, my cousin, I am often very hungry. I 
have thought, more than once, of making a quick end of it 
all, either by a pistol-shot, or a plunge into that fine river 
they call the Temmse; but, after all, monsieur, a man has to 
ask himself if it be the end. It is easy to be a ‘ free spirit,’ a 
‘ strong spirit,’ when the blood is hot in one’s veins and the 
money heavy in one’s purse; in a word, when all goes well. 
But in times of sorrow and hunger and loneliness the thought 
will come — What if I have God to reckon with afterward? 

“ But I did not mean to write after this fashion. Do not 
think of me as a coward, monsieur, my cousin. If I know 
myself, I am not that; but I am certainly unfortunate. You, 
to whom the prizes of life have fallen, can afford to be gener- 
ous. The time has not yet come when you could serve me 
with my father, were you generous enough even for that; but 
at least you can give me tidings of my poor Marguerite, from 
whom I have been sundered so cruelly. 

“ I may add also, in conclusion, that, all the circumstances 
fairly considered, I should see nothing dishonorable in accept- 


* Charles II. 


GENEVIEVE. 


109 


ing a bill ufon a London goldsmith* for a hundred crowns or 
BO — just enough to keejf me from absolute starvation. It is, 
in a manner, my own money; since, although my father has 
disowned me, I do not cease to be his natural heir. Any com- 
munication addressed to me at the hotel of the French em- 
bassador in London will reach me safely. 

“ With sentiments the most distinguished, I have the honor 
to be, monsieur, my cousin. 

Your very obedient kinsman and servant, 

‘‘ Leon Paul Emile Chevees de Graffont.’’ 

What impression this curious letter, with its mixture of 
genuine feeling and affectation, of meanness and conceit, may 
have produced upon the Due de Graffont, was never made 
known to any one. Shortly afterward he again retired to Au- 
vergne, from whence there came a rumor, by and by, that the 
story of the faux saunier had received an unexpected con- 
firmation. It was said that the due had heard from his 
nephew, who was really alive and well. It was added that his 
joy was great at the tidings, and so was his longing to embrace 
his favorite again. Yet, as it subsequently appeared, he de- 
nied himself; and, for reasons not divulged, gave the young 
man permission to travel for some time longer in foreign 
parts. Moreover, the faux saunier received, through his in- 
fluence, a free pardon, with permission to enlist in his maj- 
esty’s army, where he did good service in the German war. 

The affair was a “ nine-days'’ wonder and theme for gossip 
in the ruelles and salons of the capital; but it was soon sup- 
planted by some fresh story, and well-'nigh forgotten. It could 
not fail to reach the ears of Mile, de Eoannez and eventually 
of Genevieve also; but they never spoke of it to each other. 
Each had her own reason for this reticence. That of the older 
woman was clearly avowed and frankly justified to her own 
mind. There was. too much danger in these friendships be- 
tween people whose rank was so different — so different, that is 
to say, in the world’s estimation, which might be, and which 
probably was, utterly wrong, but which yet had such a terri- 
ble power to make itself felt, and to wreck young lives that 
ventured to disregard it. The sooner the poor child should 
learn that nothing which could happen to the Due de Graffont ’s 
heir could possibly concern her in the least, the less pain the 
lesson would cost her. 

But Genevieve could not have uttered in words the impulse 

* Goldsmiths at this time acted as bankers. 


110 


GENEVIEVE. 


that kept her silent toward her beloved and honored lady. 
The gladness that thrilled her heart at the mere belief that 
Edouard still trod the same earth, still breathed the same air 
that she did, beamed from her kindling eyes, and lent new 
beauty to her blushing cheek. And yet she did not want to 
speak of it to auy one, least of all perhaps to mademoiselle. 
It was ncyfc that she doubted the sympathy of her friend; it was 
rather that she had a dim perception, or intuition, that it was 
not well fco exhibit her secret store of wealth in the eyes of one 
who, amid the outward splendors of her life, still bore a heart 
that was poor and empty. 


CHAPTEK XVII. 

AFTEE ANOTHEE THEEE YEAES. 

Eyes that the preacher failed to touch, 

By way-side graves are raised; 

And some say, “ God be pitiful,” 

Who ne’er said, ” God be praised.” 

E. B. Browning. 

It was a close, stifling room, looking out upon one of the 
narrow streets of Old London. A more gloomy outlook there 
could hardly have been; grass was growing in the deserted 
street, where only now and then at intervals came the furtive 
tread of a solitary passer-by, who moved on hurriedly, as if 
afraid, keeping carefully in the middle of the way. If two 
chanced to meet, they avoided each other by mutual consent. 
The opposite houses had a forlorn, neglected air. Some of 
them seemed empty, and given over to ruin ; others bore on 
their closed doors the ominous red cross that told of misery 
and death within. For it was that year much to be remem- 
bered in the annals of London and of Engla,nd, the year of the 
Great Plague. ‘ ' 

The worst was over now; but the desolated city had not 
come to believe it yet. That nameless, indescribable terror 
which accompanied and aggravated the visitation brooded still 
over the minds of men. The great community in which there 
had throbbed so lately the hot and eager pulse of a common 
life seemed almost r^uced again to the isolation of savagery, 
where each man looks upon another as a stranger or an 
enemy. And yet, amid all, there were not wanting miracles 
of fidelity and affection, unnoticed and unremembered liere 
below, but recorded surely in another place. 

Of one such miracle the upper room in Cheapside, into 
which we look upon this hot September afternoon, has been 


GEKEVIEVE. 


Ill 


the scene. Three persons were there, the pallid face and 
wasted form of one of theth proclaiming him a sufferer from 
the terrible malady. He was lying, however, on a comforta- 
ble bed, and evidently well attended. A young man sat on a 
chair beside him, occupied with a book; while a lad of about 
eighteen stood in a corner, with his jerkin and shoes thrown 
off and his sleeves turned up to the elbow, busily compound- 
! ing some salve or balsam of which the perfume filled the 
i room. 

Presently the sick man stirred uneasily and murmured 
something; upon which the reader closed his book, and, bend- 
^ ing over him, asked if he would like a drink. 

I ‘‘No, sir; I would not like a drink,'’" the invalid answered, 
[ testily. He spoke good English, but with a foreign accent. 
“ 1 would not like a drink; but I would very much like an 
answer to a plain question: Who are you, and who is yonder 
varlet in the corner? How many times shall I ask you that?"" 

“ Not many times after this,"" returned the other, his grave 
face lighting up with a smile. “ You are now so much bet- 
ter that I can venture to talk to you, and to tell you whatever 
you wish to know. Meanwhile, take care, I pray you, of that 
leg of yours! * It is not well enough yet to be treated without 
ceremony. "" 

“You are right,"" returned the sick man, with a grimace, 
as a too hasty movement sent a thrill of agonizing pain through 
the wounded member. “ Just as if an empty purse and a 
broken leg were not trouble enough for any man, the plague 
must come to finish me. I may wager my old sword upon it 
(since nothing else is left me to wager) that it would have 
finished me fast enough but for you and that long lad with 
you. Who are you, in Heaven"s name? Not a priest?"" 

“ Look at my dress, man."" 

“ Heretic — Huguenot priests, I should say — dress like other 
folk."" 

“Not exactly. They wear cassocks. "" 

“ Not all of them. A fellow came to me one day who called 
himself a minister of the Gospel, and he wore a doublet and 
hosen like any honest citizen. To do him justice, he was no 
whit afraid of the sickness, but went in and out as if he bore 
a charmed life. He would fain have given me a taste of his 
office, but I told him I was a Frenchman and a Catholic."" 

“ That was no doubt one of those Nonconformists, Inde- 
pendents, Presbyterians, or the like, who arc proscribed here 
at present, but have done good service in this time of trouble 
I by returning to minister to the sick, and to preach and pray 


112 


GEKEVIEVE. 


in the churches. But you ought to have some refre/siiment. 
Henri, go and fetch a tisane. No, some soup rather. That 
will be more nourishing.^'’ / 

The “ long lad left the room. 

“ Who is that?^^ asked the patient, following hipi with his 
eye. 

The answer was spoken in. French. “ That is my servant 
and friend, Henri Alfort, who would go with me to the 
world^’s end; indeed, he has gone with me as far as the Indies 
and back again. 

“ What? You are French, too?^^ returned the other in the 
same language. 

“ Did you not guess it? I have the honor to introduce my- 
self as a compatriot to Monsieur Chevres de GraSont/^ 

“ Then you know me?"^ said the sick man, in a tone of 
surprise. 

If I had not known you I should not be here.'’^ 

“ Then you came to me on purpose ?^^ 

“ Certainly. I had been seeking you for nearly three years. 
I found you at last— here.’'’ 

The sick man raised himself upon his elbow, and bent a 
fixed and earnest gaze upon his companion and benefactor. 

“ I am not only your compatriot, but your kinsman,” con- 
tinued the latter. 

A burning flush dyed the white cheek oi the patient as he 
answered, with emotion: 

“ Then, if you are not an angel from heaven (which, being 
my kinsman, is scarce likely), you can be no other than 
Edouard de Ser court. ” 

“You are right. But here comes your soup. Give it to 
me, Henri, and leave us alone. But you may fetch a morsel 
of bread before you go.'” 

Henri brought the bread and then left the room. The 
house he could not leave, as a watchman stationed at the door 
prevented ingress or egress, and procured for them from out- 
side, though grudgingly and with difiiculty, such things as 
were absolutely necessary to sustain life. 

“ Now, my cousin,” resumed Edouard, “ eat and drink, 
else I tell you never a word. ” 

This was not to be done immediately. The sick man’s sur- 
prise, and the mingled emotions awakened in his breast, must 
first find vent in a few broken, incoherent words: 

“ You, you — my cousin — Edouard de Sercourt! It is past 
belief. It is all a dream — you are killing me.” 


GENEVIEVE. 


113 


“ Quite the contrary. With the help of God, 1 am en- 
deavoring to cure you. 

Edouard de Sercourt was now a man in years, in appear- 
ance, and in character. He looked indeed older than his years. 
His face was grave and thoughtful, with a fine forehead, deep 
blue eyes, and long but handsome Norman features. His ex- 
pression when at rest inclined to sternness, but changed and 
softened marvelously when lighted with his rare, but singu- 
larly sweet and pleasant smile. 

“ I am not worth curing,’^ were the next words of the sick 
man. ^ “ Better have left me to die. And yon, of all men, to 
do this — when the inheritance was yours — is yours, indeed, 
for that matter.-’^ 

“ There is enough for both. And there are some things 
which belong by right to you, and which I can never have. 
But there will be time hereafter to discuss these matters. 

‘‘ Yes, time enough for all that needs discussion. But 
now, the first thing 1 want to know is, how you came hither?"” 

“ I begin my story as soon as that cup is empty. No 
sooner.” 

The appetite of returning health, and the salutary habit of 
obedience which he had learned in sickness, made M. Chevres 
de Grafiont finish his soup and even eat a few mouthfuls of 
bread. In the meantime the sweet tones of a violin, with 
which Henri was amusing himself in an adjoining room, 
reached their ears. 

“ Did it never occur to you all these weeks that I have 
been here,” asked Edouard at last, “ to connect me in your 
mind with the youth you met at the Fencing School in Paris?” 

“ Why should it? You were then a smooth-faced boy, like 
that page of yours; now you have a regular Huguenot beard. 
Besides, 1 was too ill to put things together, or indeed, until 
lately, to trouble myself about who you were. It was enough 
to feel that I was not left to die like a rat in a hole; that some 
Christian hand was making my bed, and giving me a drink. 
Whose hand it was I did not greatly care.” 

“ But I spoke French to you.” 

“ I gave no heed to that. It seemed only the natural 
thing. I suppose I spoke French my§elf — when I was not 
myself, that is to say?” 

“ Indeed you did. Poured it out in torrents.” 

‘‘Ha! A great deal more, I suppose, than was edifying?” 

“ Nothing to harm any one, or to cause you trouble. But 
you wished— did you not? — to hear my story,” said Edouard, 
who was anxious for the present to avoid any allusion to the 


114 


GENEVIEVE. 


subjects which had been uppermost in the mind of his Cousin 
during the violent delirium caused by the plague and aggravated 
by the additional agony of a broken limb. 

“ Certainly 1 wish it, my cousin. I wonder how you came 
to leave the joys of Paris, and to become a wanderer in these 
inhospitable lands. Ah, if I were but back again beneath the 
blessed shadow of Notre Dame!’^ 

“ I own that at first I found Paris nearly as seductive as 
you did,"*^ said Edouard. 

“Ah, but you were always a good child! A Huguenot, 
too. No doubt you were quite innocent and respectable. No 
fear of said Leon, with perhaps a slight flavor of im- 

plied contempt in his words of praise. 

Edouard went on quietly, ignoring both the praise and the 
contempt. 

“ Some of the seductions 1 was too young to feel, or at least 
I did not feel ; not so the others. Boy as I was, I was already 
the bond-slave of the senses — eye and ear carried me whither 
they would. Cayety of all kinds, and especially balls and 
dancing, 1 loved well; but it was the charm of art — painting, 
sculpture, and above all music — that carried me off my feef^ 

“Just as I thought, my dear boy! All very virtuous and 
innocent tastes, without an atom of harm in them. 

“ None for you; but harm enough for me — 2 i, Protestant. 
I began to ask myself why I should spend my Sundays in 
traveling to and fro to Charenton, even to hear the eloquence 
of Monsieur Claude, when 1 might listen to Monsieur Bossuet 
or some other great preacher, and enjoy at the same time the 
enchanting music of the Eoyal Chapel, or of Notre Dame, or 
St. Sulpice.* So I found myself, ere I was aware, on the 
brink of a precipice. 

He paused, and a look of grave sadness overspread his 
thoughtful face. But the reserve which wj.s natural to him, 
and which was moreover the habit of his life, made him very 
silent about the conflicts and temptations through which he 
had passed. He went on: 

“ I was drawing nearer and nearer to it in darkness, and in 
all the confidence of ignorance and inexperience, when an un- 
expected circumstance opened my eyes. It arose out of the 
disgrace into which the duke my uncle unhappily fell, on ac- 
count of his friendship with Monsieur Bouquet. One day the 

* M. Claude, a celebrated and very eloquent preacher, was at this 
period the minister of the great Huguenot Temple at Charenton. The 
celebrated Bossuet, afterward Bishop of Condom, and subsequently of 
Meaux, was then preaching in the capital. 


GEN^EVIEVE. 


115 


king omitted to command his presence at Fontainebleau, 
though he spoke of the excursion to those standing beside him; 
and then my uncle knew the full extent of his misfortune. 
When he came home, he at once ordered preparations for the 
journey to Auvergne. I knew nothing of the matter, being 
out all that day; but, as it happened to be a saint's day — I 
forget what — and Monsieur Bossuet was to preach before the 
king, I went in the afternoon to the Eoyal Chapel. As we 
retired, his majesty condescended to bestow upon me a gra- 
cious glance of recognition; and a word dropped afterward, in 
the hearing of a friend of the family, intimated that if I chose 
to remain at the Court I would not find myself unwelcome. 
Understand, my cousin, that your father, from the day I came 
to him, had loaded me with kindness, had left no desire un- 
gratified, had treated me like a spoiled and favorite son. Im- 
agine, then, my embarrassment when he called me to him, and 
said that it was evidently in my power to restore his credit 
with the king; that I seemed to have shown of late a desire to 
become a Catholic; and that I had only to fulfill this pious 
intention, and to attach myself to the Court, in order to make 
his majesty in a short time forget our entanglement with that 
luckless Monsieur Fouquet and restore the uncle to favor for 
the sake of the nephew." 

“ 1 only wish I had it in my power to oblige my father at so 
cheap a cost, "-said Leon. ‘ ‘ I should have turned Mohammedan 
with pleasure, if that would have served him. But what did 
you say?" 

It was Edouard's turn now for a touch of scorn. 

“ What do you suppose?" he. asked. 

“ I suppose you were ready to serve him, as, allow me to 
say, I think you ought to have been." 

“ I wonder which you take me for — a scoundrel or a fool?" 
Edouard flashed out in his indignation. A man who throws 
away his religion without thought is a fool; a man who bar- 
ters it for gold or honor is a scoundrel." 

“ Well, you need not grow angry. My father and your un- 
cle could not wish to make you either." 

That is quite true. He supposed me already in heart a 
Catholic. Perhaps I was not far from it, when this proposal 
of his opened my eyes. Like a flash of lightning it showed 
me where I stood and what my danger was. It brought to 
my mind the solemn warning of the good man who had been 
to me as a father, and whose memory I shall reverence as long 
as I live. ‘ Do nothing in the matter of religion,' said he, 
‘until you are a man, and able to judge .for yourself.' I 


116 


GEKEVIEVE. 


knew that he was right. The Catholic faith might be the true 
one; yet, none the less, if I embraced it in such a way, 1 
should be selling my soul for worldly advantage. That would 
be a sin in the sight of God, and a baseness in the sight of 
man. 1 said to my uncle, ‘ This thing I can not do. But 
here is what I will do, if you like. I will go with you to Au- 
vergne; and there, in the quiet of the country, and removed 
from the seductions of the Court, I will give myself .to the 
study of the controversy. ^ 

“ My uncle thought my scruples fanciful. He tried hard to 
persuade me rather to study the controversy in Paris, at the 
Court, and under the auspices of the king^s clever Jesuit con- 
fessor, Pere la Chaise, who would be most happy to afford me 
every assistance. 

“ But this, 1 knew, would be in fact to surrender all. Un- 
der such circumstances my conversion would be a foregone 
conclusion. Besides, I disliked and suspected the Jesuits. 
The Catholic faith that attracted me was the faith of Monsieur 
de St. Cyran, Monsieur Arnauld, Monsieur Nicole, and of the 
holy nuns of Port Royal, where my dear adopted mother had 
her education. Her faith was genuine, if ever there was 
genuine faith in the world. So 1 remained firm, and then for 
the first time Monsieur le Due was angry with me. It was a 
bitter experience. His words 1 will not recali, save one saying 
which sunk into my heart: ‘ All I love use me ill. My own 
son has half killed me by his heartlessness and ingratitude. 
And now you!^ 

“ That was not just,^^ Leon threw in. “ God knows 1 am 
not heartless, though I may well have seemed ungrateful. 

“ Words spoken in anger are seldom Just. But 1 repeat 
them that they may show you what they showed me — what, 
indeed, I had. guessed before — the depth of his love for you. 
I knew he was longing after you, though he never spoke of 
you. I had already seen you, as you are aware, at the Fencing 
School, and 1 knew that you also desired a reconciliation most 
earnestly. Was it strange that the thought arose within me 
that I might heal the old wound, and prove that 1 was not un- 
grateful by bringing son and father once more together? 

“ Then, just before we left Paris, your letter was handed to 
me. I did not dare to speak of it, for we were all forbidden 
even the most casual mention of your name, but I thought 
over it night and day. All the more, because although, 
after that one very natural outburst, my uncle never re- 
proached me, he treated me with coldness, and allowed me to 
feel that I had lost his favor. So I was a good deal alone at 


GENEVIEVE. 


117 


Chevres, either shut up in my own apartment, or riding about, 
with only the nominal aftendance of my page Henri, then 
almost a child. I had brought with me several controversial 
works, on both sides of the question, and these I read diligent- 
ly, though without gaining much enlightenment. Better far 
than these was my father's Bible, which I studied more and 
more as the days wore on. 

“ Even when the whole household went out to hunt in the 
wild country adjoining the chateau, I used to separate from 
the rest, that I might read and meditate in solitude. This 
imprudent habit caused the adventure that well-nigh cost me 
my life. 1 was set upon by a band of desperate robbers who 
lurked in the caves and fastnesses of the desert, and 1 believed 
in good sooth that my last hour had come. However, I came 
back to life, and found myself lying on a wretched bed of 
leaves in a dark hole, with a grimy, withered hag bending over 
me, and muttering what might have been incantations. I 
own the thought occurred to me that the Komanists were right 
after all, and that this could be nothing else but Purgatory. 
But this thought soon faded, or rather it twisted and fashioned 
itself into strange and distorted images. I was very ill; and 
but for the care of the poor old woman, whose sinister looks 
hid a compassionate heart, 1 am sure 1 should have died. I 
suspect that she saved my life in more ways than one. From 
broken snatches of talk, which reached me as I grew better, I 
gathered that the ruffians about me would gladly have finished 
their work, as their fears largely predominated over any hopes 
they might entertain of getting a ransom for me. But the 
strange old woman had established a kind of authority over 
them, I suppose, by her superior cleverness, perhaps also by 
working on their superstitions. She not only tended, but pro- 
tected me; and one day when all were absent fetching the salt, 
in which they carried on their unlawful trade, she bade me go 
my way in God's name. She gave me back the few coins 
that had been found in my pocket, and the diamond breast- 
pin which 1 wore to fasten my collar. In return, I gave her 
a solemn promise in writing that 1 would endeavor to obtain a 
pardon for any of the gang who might fall into the hands of 
justice. Then, thanking her heartily for services which 1 can 
never hope to repay, 1 set my face once more toward the 
habitations of men, feeling like one come back from the 
grave." 

“ No wonder, some people seem born for adventures. Yet 
a ball may be tossed all over the world, and come back in the 
end the same ball," said Leon. 


118 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ 1 did not come back the same/^ answered Edouard. 
“ Those weeks of suffering in the den of the faux sauniers 
changed my from boy to man. I had with me there, as 
God willed it, a treasure more than gold and diamonds, though, 
its value being unknown, none cared to rob me of it. I had 
brought my father's Bible out that morning, intending to read 
it alone, in some quiet place, during the day. As soon as 1 
grew well enough to drag myself to the only part of the cave 
where the light was at all sufficient, I resumed my study, 
though at first it was chiefly to beguile the long and weary 
hours. I know now that it was not done without damage to 
my eyesight, for the light at best was dim and uncertain. 
But the result was worth it all. My cousin, 1 can not tell you 
what I found in that Book — at least I can not tell you now. 
This only believe, upon the testimony of one who has seen and 
known and felt — He spake true who said of old, ‘ The en- 
trance of Thy word giveth light!' " 

The strong reserve characteristic of Edouard sealed his lips 
from further speech, especially to unsympathizing ear& But 
the ‘‘ marvelous " light which had shone upon his soul 
illumined his face with its beams, kindling its' grave and noble 
expresssion into rare and radiant spiritual beauty. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

With a return to his usual tone and look, Edouard pres- 
ently resumed his narrative. 

“ I now perceive that my first step when I regained my free- 
dom was a false one. Assuredly I ought to have returned at 
once to my uncle, submitted myself to him, and obeyed him 
in all lawful things. But, in the state of mind in which I then 
was, this seemed too tame and commonplace a proceeding, 
especially as I lay, before my adventure, under his grave dis- 
pleasure. I was fired with the ambition to do some great 
thing, to render him some signal service which should make 
him more than forgive my Hugenotrie, To seek you out, to 
relieve the misery your letter revealed, and bring you back as 
a penitent to his feet, seemed a noble and worthy aim. What 
would our welcome be, I thought, if we came back to him to- 
gether! Besides, there was yet another reason. As soon as 1 
came forth from the den of the faux sauniers, I began to 
perceive a dimness in my sight, occasioned, I suppose, by my 
illness and my efforts to read in the dimly lighted cave. This 


GENEVIEVE. 


119 


caused me a mortal fear, for 1 know of few things more terri- 
ble to a man than the loss of sight. I wished, without the 
knowledge of my uncle, to go to Paris, and consult the best 
surgeons there. This I accomplished, and their verdict, 
thank God! was very encouraging. Then, without returning 
at all to Chevres, I set my face northward, toward England.'’^ 

“ And left my poor father still mourning for you as for a 
son — all the son he had too. Huguenot or no, therein you 
acted like a saint. Saints are always looking after some- 
thing far away up somewhere in the clouds, and not conde- 
scending to notice the little every-day matters at their feet — 
such as fathers, mothers, husbands, children, and so forth. 

“ I do not deserve canonization quite yet,^^ returned 
Edouard, with his grave smile. ‘ ‘ Of course I wrote at once, 
from the first town I reached, to inform my uncle of my 
safety; and I also asked his permission to go abroad for a 
' short time, entreating him to send me my page Henri, and a 
modest supply of money for my intended journey. 

“ What if he had ordered you to come home?^’ 

‘‘ I would have obeyed him, of course. But I wrote to him 
in such a way that he was hardly likely to do it. I was, as 1 
see now, obsinately set upon carrying out my plan, which I 
thought would only delay my return for a very short period. 
My letter, through the miserable negligence of the post, took 
I know not how long a time to reach (^hevres. However, it 
came at last into my under’s hands; and, by his directions, 
Henri joined me at Rouen. The poor boy had been eating his 
heart out with grief for me since the day he left me for dead 
among the robbers. He brought me generous supplies, and, 
what was better still, an affectionate letter from my uncle, full 
of joy at the news of my safety, though tinged with natural 
disappointment at the postponement of my return. 1 think 
1 ought, even then, to have gone back to him, especially as I 
had accomplished my purpose of consulting the surgeons. 
But I foolishly thought that, having gone so far, I had better 
persevere. After a short detour to the neighborhood of Ver- 
j non, to see old friends, who, as it proved, had long since left 
I the place, I went to Havre, took ship, and reached London. 

! There I inquired for you among all the Frenchmen about the 
! Court and in the household of the queen dowager.* I ascer- 
I tained at last that you had lost a large sum at play, and that, 

I to escape prosecution for the other debts you had incurred 

* Henrietta Maria, widow of Charles L 


120 


GENEVIEVE. 


while waiting on Fortune, you had taken ship for the Bar- 
bad oes.^^ 

“ What in the world should take me to the Barbadoes?^’ 

“ The desire to get away from your embarrassments — the 
hope of adventure — and the chance of making the voyage with 
a French captain who had once been in your father^s service.'’^ 
“ How careful a man should be of his words! Who would 
have thought that my very innocent ruse, in giving out that I 
was going to the Indies, to escape going to a worse place — 
that is to say, to the prison of the Meet — would have cost so 
much trouble!’^ 

“ It cost me a year and nine months out of my life, and it 
nearly cost Henri the whole of his, for he caught the yellow 
fever the first day we went on shore. However, it was all my 
own folly. I ought not to have pursued you in that way across 
the world. But God is above all, and you see I have found 
you at last.'’ ^ 

“ How did you manage it?^^ 

“ When I returned to England, I heard that the queen- 
mother and her French attendants had left the country, and 
that the king and his court had gone to Salisbury on account 
of the plague. I knew I should find the French embassador 
with him there. So to Salisbury I went; and there 1 heard, 
from one of the embassador^s gentlemen, that you had ridden 
a race for a wager with some madcap young Englishman, and 
been thrown from yo^ur horse, and that you were lying help- 
less and abandoned in the plague-stricken city. He could 
not, however, give me your address; so on reaching this place 
1 went to the Capuchins the queen-mother left behind her in 
Somerset House, and asked if they knew you.'’^ 

“ If they did, they never came near me, the rascals!’^ 

“Not their fault; good and noble men as they are, who 
have not counted their own lives dear to them in this plague- 
stricken city,^^* said the Huguenot, in his generous enthusi- 
asm for whatsoever was noble, honorable, and of good report. 
“Two of them are dead, three more are ill, and the rest over- 
whelmed with work. However, one of them told me that a 
Frenchman had been ill in this house, but that he believed 
that he was dead long ago. Coming here, I saw the red cross 
on the door, but the watchman told me that only two poor old 
women were within, both dying of the plague. I hesitated to 
enter; for, once within, I knew I should not be permitted to 
go forth again, and so, if you were not here, my search would 


* A fact. 


GEKEVIEVE. 


12i 


be stopped. . Questioning the man further, I heard a sicken- 
ing story of desertion and 'misery; of the death of some, and 
the flight of others by night over the walls and roofs of neigh- 
boring houses. He knew nothing of a Frenchman with a 
broken leg ; and yet 1 could not get rid of the impression that 
here indeed you were. So at last 1 dared the consequences and 
went in, leaving Henri outside to take my directions in case of 
need. The first errand I found for him was to procure com- 
forts for the two poor, desolate old creatures, to whose last 
hours we were in time to minister, though we were too late to 
save them. I was leaning out of the window to throw him 
money for this purpose, when 1 thought I heard a voice from 
the room above me. Listening intently, I caught the words, 
in a kind of wild chant, ‘ A Ms le Mazarin /’* Never before 
did it give me such real pleasure to hear the name of the car- 
dinal. 

“ Ah,^^ said Leon, “ 1 suppose I thought in my wanderings 
that 1 was again in the midst of the Fronde.'’^ 

“ At all events, you were singing Frondeur songs. You 
were quite delirious. Indeed, 1 say now that when I first saw 
your face, hope and courage forsook me, and I thought I had 
found you only to lose you again. My cousin, those were 
dark days that followed. I will not dwell upon them. Thank 
God, you are saved. 

His voice trembled ; and he averted his face from the sick 
man, lest his emotion should be read too. plainly there. The 
protracted conflict he had waged with death, in one of its most 
appalling forms, had left deep traces even upon his strong 
heart and frame. 

His cousin was moved also, as much as his weak condition 
permitted. He stretched out his hand to Edouard. 

“ I thank you, he said. ‘‘ You have saved my life, lean 
never repay you. 

“ Yes, you can,^^ Edouard answered, in a lighter tone. 
“ You have it in your power to give me that thing which all 
men desire the most — success. When I bring you home with 
me to the Hotel de Graflont, and present you to your fa- 
ther— 

“ Oh, do not speak of that! How can I ever face him 
again? And not him alone, but all Paris — the De Bauny con- 
nection, and all their friends, the king himself!"' And, mov- 

* Down with Mazarin. The Fronde was a kind of revolt against the 
cardinal minister, who was all-powerful with Anne of Austria, during 
the minority of Louis XIV. 


122 


GENEVIEVE. 


ing uneasily on his couch, he murmured something about a 
lettre de cachet. 

No fear of that/’ said Edouard. “ I once talked the 
whole matter over confidentially with Monsieur I’Avocat Dar- 
tignan, who, you know, is a great authority about the Graffont 
family affairs. He assured me you would be in no danger if 
you returned at any time; and, as to your father’s dispositioi) 
toward you, I will answer for it with my life. It will be the 
happiest day in his when he embraces you once more.” 
can not do it,” said the sick man, petulantly. 

Edouard kept silence, being too wise, perhaps also too 
strong, to utter what he thought: “You will do it for all 
that. ” He knew his own power and the weakness of his cous- 
in; and in such matters, as well as in those of higher import, 
“he who believeth” does not “make haste.” The long 
pause that followed was end'ed by an ominous sound. The 
unaccustomed noise of approaching wheels broke the stillness 
of the desolate street, and as it came nearer and nearer a loud, 
harsh voice was heard to cry, “ Bring out your dead! Bring 
out your dead!” 

The sick man shuddered, and drew the coverlet over his 
face, which had now grown ashy in its paleness. Edouard 
went over to the window and looked out. The action was 
characteristic of both. Throughout life one would always 
face what was dreaded, the other cover his eyes from the sight 
of it. 

Edouard said presently, in the quiet matter-of-fact tone 
which is the best remedy for nervous terror, “ The cart has 
not stopped once in this street; and I verily believe it is almost 
empty. God be praised ! He is removing from us at last the 
stroke jof His hand. Or rather,” he added, in a softer tone, 
“it is now that His hand is touching us, to bind up and to 
heal. The pestilence was only His sword.” Then, approach- 
ing the bed, “You have talked enough now, my cousin. I 
shall read a Gospel for you, and then you will go to sleep.” 

He opened his father’s Bible, and read the parable of the 
prodigal son. At the words, “ I will arise, and go to my fa- 
ther,” a tear stole down the wasted cheek of the sick man; 
and as soon as the book was closed, he began to speak. 

“ My cousin, there is a new version of that old story, in 
which it is the elder son who goes after the prodigal, and 
brings him back to the fatted calf and the best robe. But 
what about his part, when that is done? Will it be said to 
him in future, ‘ All that I have is thine?’ Has he not been 
playing, for his own interest, a losing game?” 


GENEVIEVE. 


123 


“ Allow me to repeat to you, my cousin/’ observed 
Edouard, “that for the' present you have talked quite 
enough. ” 

“ Well, yes, to you. For the present I have no more words 
to say to you; they must wait until I find them. But 1 pray 
you, ere I sleep, call me that boy of yours whose violin I hear 
twanging in the next room. My thanks to him, for the cour- 
age and devotion with which he has tended a plague-stricken 
sufferer, may perhaps admit of being put into words. Henri! 
Henri! Is it my own voice I hear? It sounds to me like an- 
other man’s.” 

“ Your own voice, truly, but still faint and weak. He 
could not hear you. But if you really wish it, and will promise 
not to speak more than ten words to him, I will call him.” 

He did so; and the lad, still holding his beloved violin, 
came and stood by the bed, saying respectfully, “ I am glad 
to see Monsieur le Marquis so much better.” 

Leon stretched out his hand to him. 

“ My good boy,” he said, kindly, “ I thank you with all my 
heart for your care and service. To your master and to you I 
owe my life. If I can ever repay you, God knows how gladly 
I will do it.” 

“ Monsieur le Marquis is too good,” said the youth. “ Any 
little services I have had the honor to render were only my 
duty, and far less than I owe to my own master.” 

“ To whom,” said Leon, “ you yet can not owe as much as 
Ido.” 

“ If monsieur will pardon me,” said Henri, “ it is true that 
I owe him less, because, no doubt, my life is worth much less 
than that of a gentleman of France, like monsieur. But 
Monsieur de Sercourt, himself face to face with death, held off 
with his own hands the faux saunier whose poniard was at 
my throat, bidding me fiy for my life, which, to my everlast- 
ing disgrace — ” 

“ Hush, Henri!” Edouard interrupted, imperatively. 
“ You tell that story all wrong; but whether wrong or right, 
it could not interest Monsieur le Marquis, to whom, I am sure, 
you are properly grateful for the kind and gracious sentiments 
he has expressed toward you. Now we must both leave him, 
that he may take the re^t which is absolutely necessary. No, 
my cousin, not another word. I am going, with my books, 
to take the air in the back yard. Should you have need of 
anything, the lightest touch on the wall at your head will 
bring Henri, who will remain in the next room — and this time 
without his violin.” 


124 


GEKEVIEVE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

GOIifFIDENCES. 

A grief then changed to something else. 

Tennyson. 

Thbee years had not passed over the household in the Hotel 
de Roannez without leaving behind them some traces of their 
footfall. What years ever do? Yet the changes wrought by 
these three years were inward, not outward, and they came not 
‘‘ with observation.^'’ Still, as of old, Mme. la Duchesse filled 
her place in the world of fashion, and, supported by her world- 
ly and frivolous kinsfolk, strove hard to maintain, in the brill- 
iant Parisian society of the day, the position that her son and 
daughter both absolutely refused to occupy. Still, as of old, 
the amiable, rather passive duke — who, however, like many 
amiable people, was capable of much quiet determination, not 
to say obstinacy — read, studied, meditated, associated in secret 
with his persecuted Jansenist friends, and did not show the 
slightest inclination to marry, to appear at Court, or to mix in 
any way with the business of the world. Before the silent 
resolution of her son madame felt herself utterly powerless; 
and she was far too astute to waste her strength in a palpably 
hopeless struggle. Silent also,, where speech could plainly 
avail nothing, she acquiesced in the inevitable. But she was 
all the more desirous of conquering the resistance of her 
daughter, over whom the social habits of the time- allowed her 
an almost absolute power. So the old conflict went on, and 
very much in the old way. Save for her brother, whose 
absences from home were increasingly long and frequent. 
Mile, de Roannez stood alone in her family, and endured as 
best she could the assaults constantly made upon her. She 
lived as much as possible apart from the rest, occupying her- 
self in devotion, and in works of charity for the poor. 

Yet the hand of Time had softened insensibly both the op- 
position and the resistance. The health of madame was not 
what it used to be; she was often ailing, and more than once 
had been seriously ill. Her daughter had then, with filial as- 
siduity, taken her place beside the bed of suffering. Nor had 
madame been insensible to her attentions; although, on her 
recovery, things apparently returned to the well-worn groove, 
yet it was with a difference. On both sides there was more 
gentleness, more desire to avoid occasions of friction, and to 


GENEVpTB. 135 

please each other in indifferent matters. It was a token of 
this, that madame ceded Genevieve of her own free will to her 
daughter; and she was now her demoiselle, as well as, in a very 
real sense, her friend. Perhaps, however, madame might not 
have been so complaisant, had she not found a new favorite, 
and source of amusement, in a negro page presented to her by 
one of her acquaintances. It must be owned that little Zoro, 
with his piquant ugliness, his queer tricks, his detestable 
French, and his unfailing good-humor, was a more lively if 
not a more ornamental appendage to the ruelle of madame 
than the tall and graceful girl, who would hand a cup of 
chocolate or wave a fan with what her lady styled un air de 
princesse. 

Genevieve now spent much of her time in the simple little 
room which was called the boudoir of mademoiselle. Her 
affection for her had grown and deepened, until it had become 
almost, if not quite, the very mainspring of her life — a passion 
in its ardor, a principle in its depth and constancy. It was 
not only that she knew better what there was to love, but that 
there was really more to love than there had been in the first 
days of their acquaintance. During those three years, outward 
fading and inward ripening had both gone forward rapidly 
with Mile, de Eoannez. At eight-and-twenty she looked like 
one who had already left her youth half a life-time behind 
her. Her cheek was pale and wasted, her eye had lost the 
sparkling vivacity of early days. Threads of silver had even 
begun to show themselves in the smooth, dark hair, which 
still, as heretofore, disdained the fashionable disguise of pow- 
der’. But there was less of . the old yearning, hungry look, 
less pain and more patience, less conflict and more peace. 

One day — the very day, as it happened, when in distant 
London Edouard de Sercourt was telling his story to the kins- 
man he had saved — mademoiselle summoned Genevieve to her 
boudoir. She was seated at her little table, upon which, be- 
neath the crucifix, lay an open portfolio of dark morocco, con- 
taining a pile of MS. Genevieve saw that she had been weep- 
ing, but now her tears were dried, and her face wore a bright 
and animated, almost even a joyful look. 

“ I have sent for thee, my child, she said, “ as a friend in 
whon* 1 can place implicit trust. I am going to repose in thee 
a great and signal confidence. But sit down.'’^ 

Genevieve would have placed herself on the footstool, her 
usual seat, but mademoiselle pointed to one of the tall, high- 
backed chairs, motioning her to bring it to the table. 

‘‘ My brother,’^ she said, “ has been intrusted with these 


126 


GEKEYlilVE. 


most precious papers by our friends — Messieurs de Port Royal. 
And he has honored me by taking me into his counsel about 
them. 

“1 think that was very wise of Monsieur le Duc/^ said 
Genevieve, whose private impression was that neither he, nor 
M. de Saint Cyran, nor M. de Sacy, nor even the great M. 
Arnauld himself, would be half so good a judge upon a diffi- 
cult point as mademoiselle. “Is it that Monsieur le Due is 
preparing a book of devotion 

“Not so, my child. These pencil-marks, sometimes so 
difficult to decipher, have been traced by a hand far greater 
than his, even the hand that gave the ‘ Little Letters ^ to the 
cause of truth and righteousness. Yes, you may touch them 
— you may look at them yourself.^'’ 

She took up the portfolio, and placed it in the hands of 
Genevieve, somewhat as if she gave her, not merely some 
priceless treasure, like a pearl or diamond, but some high gift 
that ennobled and consecrated the receiver. 

Genevieve took it reverently, and looked at its contents. 
They seemed to be for the most part disjointed fragments, 
often mere pencil scratches, disfigured by many corrections 
and erasures, and, as mademoiselle had said, very difficult to 
decipher, although there were found among them a few pieces 
of comparative length, which had been carefully written out. 
Raising her eyes from the portfolio, she looked once more in the 
face of her friend. The innermost secret of one heart, which the 
other had long guessed in silence, was in the eyes of both as 
they met. Then once for all, once only in a life-time, did 
Charlotte de Roannez answer in uttered words the unuttered 
question of her friend. The peace that had come to her at 
last made her strong to speak. “ As the nearest friend of 
Monsieur Pascal, my brother was consulted by Messieurs de 
Port Royal on the subjects of these MSS. and requested to give 
his help in preparing them for publication.* Was it strange 
that he should ask mine, since Monsieur Pascal was my friend 
also in the old days? Do I say it a little proudly, Genevieve? 
No wonder, it is my title to honor. If it could be right — if it 
were not a sin — to glory in aught else than the cross of Christ, 
1 might glory in the thought that the — (she choked down 
something that might have been a sob, and a word went back 
into the silence with it) — “ the friendship of the noblest soul 
God ever made has been my lot, my portion in the land of the 

* A fact. M. de Roannez was one of the editors of the Port Royal 
edition of the “ Pensees de Pascal.” 


GENEVIEVE. 


127 


living. No, there is no_ pairv^now. 1 do not say that there 
-has been none. But it is gone, I think forever. For he has 
entered into peace. He walks now in white garments stain- 
less, with Him whom having not seen he loved, and for whom 
he gave up all. Is it strange that the reflection of that peace 
should fall upon those who loved him here? It has fallen, 
even upon me. Old things have passed away — sometimes I 
feel already as if this mortal had put on immortality. Some- 
times I seem to see, untouched by earthly pain or passion, a 
glorious transfigured form, standing in the living light, near 
the mystic Elders and the Seven Lamps of Fire, beside St. 
John the Divine, and with eagle eye like his forever fixed 
upon the burning Jasper above the Throne. 

Genevieve could not speak; she held her breath in wonder 
and in awe. After a long pause, Charlotte took the papers 
again, and selecting one of them, which was much worn and 
frayed, she gave it to Genevieve, adding in an altered tone: 
“ And that you may understand the saying, ^ These are they 
that came out of great tribulation,’ read this.” 

Genevieve read as follows: “ It is unjust to attach any one 
to myself, although the attachment might be formed volun- 
tarily, and with pleasure. I should deceive those in whom I 
awakened such a desire, for I am not the end of any one, and 
therefore I have no means of satisfying it. Am I not about 
to die, and thus the object of their attachment would be no 
more? As I should be guilty, if I caused a falsehood to be 
believed, although there were sweetness in the persuasion, 
and pleasure in the acceptance, to others and to myself, so 
should I be guilty if I made myself beloved. If I attract peo- 
ple to myself, I ought to warn them that they are about to 
consent to a lie, and that they ought not to believe it, what- 
ever satisfaction from it might revert to me. Moreover, they 
ought not to attach themselves to me, but to pass their lives 
and spend their efforts in pleasing God, or in seeking Him.”* 

“ Mademoiselle, it is awful!” said Genevieve, looking up 
with the wondering, fear-stricken face of a child who has come 
unawares upon some grand yet terrible sight. 

“ It is sublime !” returned Charlotte, with a flash of mourn- 
ful pride. “ But give it back to me. This is not a piece of 
contemplation, it is the life-blood of a heart. Perhaps of two 
hearts,” she added, in a lower voice. “He used to keep it 

* Tliis detached fragment Pascal kept with him, as described 
abpve. It was incorporated in the “Thoughts” by his Port Royal 
editors. 


128 ' GENEVIEVE. 

within his vest, or beneath his pillow. The world shall not 
have it — not if I can help it.'’^ 

Oh, mademoiselle!^^ said Genevieve, as her heart sent 
up, from its inmost depths, a passionate protest against this 
doctrine of renunciation. “ It hurts me! It burns me like 
fire! 1 can not bear it.'’^ 

It was with a smile, a strange sad smile, that Charlotte an- 
swered her. 

“ I will not tell you that great saints have borne it — such as 
he. But even I, with all my errors and shortcomings, I have 
borne it — lived through it — found. the peace that waits for us 
beyond it — even at the grave of all we love, and all we hope 
for here on earth. But enough, more than enough, of this. 
These, papers, Genevieve, with the rest he has left behind him, 
are the precious stones, the gold and silver, the rare and fra- 
grant wood another David had prepared for another temple of 
the Lord which he, like the King of Israel, was not permitted i 
to build. It was his design to dedicate the ripened fruits of i 
his splendid genius to a great work upon the evidences of our ; 
most holy faith. No doubt the plan was perfect in the brain i 

that gave it birth, but only unfinished fragments had been ' 

transferred to paper when the pencil dropped from the dying 
hand. 

“ But, mademoiselle, God will surely say to him what He 
said to King David, ‘ Thou didst well, that it was in thine 
heart. ^ 

“ Surely. There will be no loss to him; but much, I fear, 
to the Church on earth. For even the nearest friends of his 
spirit to take up with too daring hand the tools of the master 
and attempt to complete his unfinished work, would be a 
blunder and an insolence, almost a sacrilege. Therefore, all 
that love and reverence can do now is to select and prepare, 
ouli of the rich legacy he has left us, a treasury of golden 
thoughts for future generations of the Church of God.'’^ 

'^'Ah, mademoiselle, what a beautiful work!^'’ said Gene- 
vieve. 

“ Beautiful, too, for us to help in it, which we may do, both 
you and I, if only as hewers of wood and drawers of water. 
There will be a great deal of mechanical work, in making 
copiel^ of that which has been revised and deciphered, to sub- 
mit to the other editors, some of whom are in exile or in 
prison. Such work must be intrusted to no one in whom we 
can not confide to the uttermost. The papers must not leave 
my brother's hands, or mine, and for the present strict secrecy 
must be observed about the whole matter. Therefore I h^i-Ve 


GEKEVIEVE. 


129 


constituted myself my brother’s secretary, and 1 intend that 
you, Genevieve, shall be nrine; I know you write quickly, and 
in a clear and fair hand.” 

‘‘ For that I have to thank my dear, excellent father!” 
cried the delighted Genevieve. “ How glad he would be now 
if he could see the fruit of the careful lessons in penmanship 
which he gave me in my childhood!” 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ BEOTHER AND SISTER.” 

Pascal, 

Whom, if I pleased, I might to the task call, 

Of making square to a finite eye 
The circle of Infinity. 

R. Browning. 

Time glided swiftly by with Genevieve after this. Slight 
and mechanical as her part might be in the noble task of her 
jiatrons, it was yet, to the thoughtful, deep-hearted girl, 
nothing less than ‘‘ a liberal education.” She illustrated that 
true word of the poet, “ ’Tis the taught already that profit 
by teaching. ” Of course she did not gain any clear or con- 
nected idea of the scope and plan of that great work of which 
“ the imperfect and immortal, sketch ” had dropped from the 
dying hand of Pascal. But in this she was not so very much 
behind the ablest critics of her own time, and of ours. Almost 
as well might we 

Call up him who left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold,” 

or reconstruct the “ palace of music reared ” by some mighty 
enchanter who has poured forth all his passionate soul upon 
the lyre or the organ, as seek to complete the edifice of which 
Pascal took the secret with him to the grave. No human 
hand shall ever raise the temple which he projected for the 
glory of God; but the treasure he amassed and prepared, the 
gold, the silver, and the “ stones of fire,” remain as a price- 
less gift to the Church. Perhaps they are even more valu- 
able, in some respects, than the finished work would have been. 

It was these “ stones of fire ” — these grand, living, quick- 
ening thoughts — which filled and expanded the soul of Gene- 
vieve, She learned the greatness and the littleness of man; 
his grandeur and his misery. How his grandeur evidences 
and enhances his misery; while his misery bears witness to his 
grandeur, ‘‘ because it is the misery of a dethroned king,” 


180 


GENEVIEVR. 


who can never forget that which he has been, and that which 
ho was meant to be. “ He is onl}'^ a reed, the weakest thing 
in Nature: but he is a thinhing reed. The universe need not 
arm itself to crush him; a vapor, a drop of water, suffices to 
kill him. But if the universe were to crush him, he would 
still be more noble than that which kills him; because he 
knows that he dies, while the universe which kills him^ knows 
nothing of its power. She learned, moreover, that this weak 
but noble being possessed in his first estate ‘‘ a true and living 
joy, of which there now remains to him only the empty track 
and channel, which he tries in vain to fill with all that sur- 
rounds him, seeking in the things he has not that which he 
can not obtain in those that he has, but without success, be- 
cause this infinite gulf can only be filled by the infinite and 
immutable, that is, by G-od Himself. She learned “the 
three orders of greatness — the visible, the intellectual, and the 
spiritual. How great minds have their empire, their glories, 
their victories, and have no need of outward pomp and show, 
and no connection with it. How the pure and holy, who are 
great in the sight of God, have their glories also, as far beyond 
the triumphs of intellect as these transcend the vulgar splen- 
dor of kings and princes. “ Archimedes won no battles; but 
he enriched the world with his discoveries. Oh, how great is 
his intellectual joy! Jesus Christ, without wealth, without 
scientific achievement, stands in His order of holiness. He 
gave us no discoveries; He never reigned : but He was hum- 
ble, patient, holy — holy — holy unto God; terrible to demons, 
without sin. Oh, in what glory and magnificence has He 
come, for the eyes of the heart which can discern what is ex- 
cellent!^^ 

It doubled their preciousness in the mind' of Genevieve that 
these grand thoughts came to her “ all perfumed with, the 
name of One — even that Name above every name which was 
enshrined in the innermost heart of Pascal. All his treasured 
wealth of thought was an ofiering laid at His feet. ‘ ‘ Seign- 
eur , je vous donne tout.” “Lord, I' give Thee ^11,^^ he 
wrote once, and the purpose breathes through every word he 
ever penned. The center thought of all his thoughts is this — 
“ Jesus Christ is the source of all things, and the center to 
which all things tend. He who knows Him knows the reason 
of all things."^ 

A bright wintery sun was shining on the first snow of the 
year, when one morning mademoiselle came bank to her room 
from a consultation with her brother, to find Genevieve bend- 


A- 





GENEVIEVE. 


131 


ing diligently over her writing, and looking, as she thought, 
rather pale- and tired. -r 

“ Lay down your pen, my child,’" she said to her, kindly. 
“ Go and walk in the garden for half an hour; it will refresh 
you.” 

Genevieve looked up pleadingly, “But, mademoiselle, I 
want so much to finish this. Look! there is only another 
page.” 

“ All the better discipline for thee to leave it unfinished,” 
said the pupil of Port Royal. “ Go, Genevieve!” 

Genevieve was too well trained by this time to object. She 
covered her golden hair with a warm scarlet hood, and went 
down into the garden, pondering the while upon what she had 
been writing. 

Mademoiselle did wisely in sending her out. There was 
keen exhilaration in the crisp morning air and the clear frosty 
sunshine. On the yet untrodden paths and the bare flowerless 
beds lay the pure white snow, adorning also the branches of 
the trees and shrubs, and lurking here and there in crevices of 
the marble statues, whose dull weather-stained hues it seemed 
to mock. In the midst, the fountain sent up its tiny spray to 
sparkle in the sunshine. 

Genevieve thought* God’s world very fair to see, and 
very pleasant to live in, as she crushed the soft snow beneath 
her light elastic feet. It was in part that mere physical en- 
joyment of existence which is oftenest felt by the j^oung, 
though by no means confined to them; but it was also in part 
the more deep and real joy which is born of high thought, and 
especially of the thought that links the loving and believing 
heart with the true source of joy. Por now the heart of Gene- 
vieve re-echoed from its inmost depths those words of the 
great master which her hand had just been tracing on the 
pages of her MS. — Seigneur, je vous donne tout,” Half 
unconsciously her lips uttered them, in glad and fearless ac- 
quiescence. The old self-questionings as to how much the 
“ all ” includes, had vanished for the present, or at least they 
had ceased to vex her. She felt content to lay everything at 
His feet, and to let Him direct the disposal. 

While meditating upon these things, she found herself close 
to one of those fantastically constructed arbors common at 
that time in the gardens of the great. She wondered if it 
would be too cold for mademoiselle to bring her book, or her 
work for the poor, and to sit there for a little while. Surely 
the fresh air and the sunshine" would do her- good. To test 
the point, she went in and sat down. It was very pleasant: 


132 


GENEVIEVE. 


before her lay the garden, fair in its winter robe of white, un- 
soiled as yet by a single stain, and sparkling in the frosty sun- 
shine. In the foreground of the picture was the marble fount- 
ain, with its broad-rimmed basin, its quaint statues, and its 
changing jets of quivering crystal, filling the air with a low 
murmur of slumberous sound. All these things together 
lulled her senses, and she was — not sleeping, but certainly 
resting mind and body, when she became conscious of the ap- 
proach of some one from the house. 

For a moment she thought it was M. de Eoannez. The 
head of the household had always been kind to her, as indeed 
he was to every one; but since her labors as a copyist had 
brought her into closer intercourse with him, he had treated 
her with a sort of paternal interest and friendliness. This 
friendliness she fully reciprocated; but she was a keen observ- 
er, and by this time she had come the length of acknowledg- 
ing to herself that M. de Roannez was cast in a mold less 
heroic than his sister. Of late he almost seemed to doubt 
whether mademoiselle ought not to yield to the wishes of her 
mother, and of all their kindred, by accepting the still con- 
stant Due de la Feuillade; always supposing that she could be 
lawfully absolved from the hasty and informal vow of celi- 
bacy which she had taken at Port Royaf. As Genevieve now 
thought she saw him approaching, she asked herself whether 
she might not summon courage enough to make use of this 
rare opportunity for giving him a hint — without pretending to 
have noticed anything — of how greatly the presence and the 
attentions of M. de la Feuillade always grieved and pained 
her beloved mademoiselle. 

But, after all, this was not M. le Due. It was a stranger, 
resembling him in figure, being tall and rather slender. He 
looked considerably younger, however, Genevieve thought, as 
he drew nearer. Doubtless he had • come from the ruelle of 
madame; there was in the ante-chamber a glass door which 
opened into the garden. He had what she had now learned 
to call “ an air of the highest distinction.’^ He was very rich- 
ly dressed in maroon-colored velvet, trimmed with gold lace, 
and a long and sweeping triple plume adorfied the hat which 
he removed with a profound bow as soon as he saw her. The 
indispensable perriique shaded a handsome young face, wear- 
ing an unusual but attractive air of nobleness and gravity, 
which was increased by the fact that instead of the royale, or 
single tuft of hair, usually adorning the chins of gentlemen of 
fashion, he wore an ample Huguenot beard,” as it was 
styled at the time. Yet, in spite of this, there seemed to 



GENEVIEVE. 


133 


Genevieve something strangely familiar in the face, something 
that awakened dim, indistinct recollections. Who was this 
stranger? Had she ever seen him before? Somehow she felt 
in his presence a vague trouble and disquiet. 

He, on his part, was probably mistaking her for some one 
else. So, at least, she concluded, partly from a kind of un- 
certainty and indecision in his step and manner as he ap- 
proached, partly from the unlikeliness of a grand seigneur 
wanting to speak to her, unless indeed he wished to send some 
message through her to mademoiselle. True to her training, 
and to the instinct that taught her it was safest for her to ob- 
serve, with extreme carefulness, all the forms of etiquette, 
and thus keep within the shelter of a well-defined position, 
she rose and acknowledged the bow with a courtesy, which 
said plainly, “lam not a great lady, but only the demoiselle 
of a great lady.'’’ Her neat dress, of dark camlet, with its 
snowy frills and “ pinners,” told the same tale. 

“ Have I not: — I think, but I am not certain, that I have 
the honor of addressing Mademoiselle Genevieve Monteres?” 
said the stranger. 

His voice stirred strange memories in the heart of Gene- 
vieve, and it was with an unconscious quiver in her own that 
she answered, “ You are not mistaken, monsieur. Can I have 
the honor of serving you in any way with mademoiselle?” 

For all answer he drew near, took her hand in his, and, 
bending down, pressed his lips upon it. 

Monsieur cried the astonished and indignant Gene- 
vieve, crimson to the roots of her golden hair. 

“ Genevieve! Do you not remember your brother, Edouard 
de Sercourt?” 

“ Edouard! — oh, Edouard, I am so glad!” The next few 
minutes were spent in mingled tears and, laughter, and in 
very incoherent exclamations, questions that waited for no 
answers and expected none, and broken words of greeting and 
congratulation. 

At last Edouard found composure enough to say, ‘ ‘ Dear 
little sister, let us sit down here, and talk together soberly. I 
have so much to hear from you, and to tell you. More to hear 
from you, I think. ” 

“ How did you find me out?” asked Genevieve. 

“ Ah, that is quite a long story. There is quite a romance 
about it, in which my cousin, the. Marquis de Chevres, figures 
largely. That gentleman was not, in his early youth, quite as 
dutiful a son as he ought to have been. He displeased his 
father, the Due de Gralfont, in various ways; but his last, and 


134 


GEKEVIEVE. 


as the world thought, his worst escapade, was to marry a very 
beautiful young lady without the consent of her parents, and 
under circumstances which particularly enraged her family. 

He had to leave the country; and the young lady — who is alto- 
gether charming, and deserving of nothing but sympathy and 
admiration — was restored to her friends. In her sorrow, for 
she was really attached to him — she betook herself to works of 
piety and charity; a very good way of healing a sore heart, as 
many have found before her. It was her pleasure to minister 
to the sick poor in the Hotel Hieu, wearing the humble dress 
of a Sister of St. Vincent de Paul. While thus engaged, she 
laid both you and me under the deepest obligations, by sooth- 
ing the last hours of my dear adopted mother. 

“Ah! That dear Sister Marguerite!'’^ Genevieve ex- 
claimed. 

“ Yes, my little sister; that dear Sister Marguerite, to 
whom you were so grateful, is really no other than Madame la 
Marquise de Chevres. If she lives, she will, I presume, be 
one day Madame la Duchesse de Graflont. I am happy to 
say all are now reconciled and at peace. Monsieur de Ohev- 
res has received his father^’s forgiveness, and has accommodat- 
ed his differences with the family of madame. She is to be 
released from her religious habit; I kiiow not how they man- 
age these things, but they do manage them. The young 
people, who, as I said, are really very much attached to each 
other, are to have a suitable establishment and to live in 
Paris. 

“ Oh, but Sister Marguerite will be so sorry to give up her 
works of piety, and to return to the world !^^ 

“lam not so sure of that,^^ said Edouard, smiling a little, 
and stroking his Huguenot beard. “ Besides, Monsieur de 
Chevres will not prevent her doing as much good as she likes 
among the poor. He is greatly changed from what he was in 
his wild, reckless youth; though even then his errors rather ■ 
arose from thoughtlessness and want of any fixed principle \ 

than for deliberate wickedness. It is a, great cause of joy to ) 

me that all their affairs have turned Q^lit so happily. My 
uncle absolutely lives anew in his restored son; while my 
cousin is as happy as a king, enjoying his lathery’s favor, his 
wife^s affection, and his recovered position in society. See 
how I am telling everything to my little sister in this first 
hour of our meeting! It seems so natural to talk to you. 

But I am wandering from my text, as Monsieur Claude would 
say. Before I left France — that is to say, three years ago — 1 
went to Vernon to seek for you, and there I learned the sad 


GENEVIEVE. 


135 


news of your departure, but no one could tell me whither you 
had gone. The old chateau was in the hands of strangers. 
They were kind people, however, and seemed to cherish a sort 
of compassionate interest in the former owners of the place. 
Only think, Genevieve, they showed me our dear old Jean- 
nette, spending her last days in ease and comfort in the 
meadow by the river. Then I sought out Margot, but she 
could only tell me that you and your mother had gone to 
Paris, she believed to some convent. So I Vas obliged to 
postpone further search for you till my return from abroad. 
1 happened yesterday to mention your name to Madame de 
Chevres; and she at once told me all she knew of Madame 
Monteres, and of you. 1 lost no time in calling upon Monsieur 
de Roannez, with whom 1 had already a slight acquaintance, 
and requesting him to present me to the ladies of his family. 
Behold me, then, waiting upon Madame la Duchesse at her 
levee, all for the purpose of finding out and conversing with 
my dear little sister. 

“ You are very good to me. Monsieur de Sercourt.’^ 
Brothers and sisters do not say ‘ monsieur ^ and ‘ made- 
moiselle,^ at least in private; they call each other by the dear 
familiar names they have learned in childhood. Remember, 
Genevieve, you must look upon me entirely as your brother; 
an elder brother, whose right and whose duty it is to take care 
of you. Duty it is indeed, if there be any meaning in the 
word. 1 think that no son ever owed more to parents than I 
owe to your excellent father and mother. Your father, with 
his strong, uncompromising truthfulness, kept me true to the 
faith which he himself did not' share. But for his wise coun- 
sel, 1 might have lightly parted with it in my boyhood. 

“ Then you are still a Protestant said Genevieve, with a 
shade of disappointment in her voice. 

“Yes, my little sister; and I shall be, as long as God keeps 
me true to Him and to myself. But now, tell me about your- 
self. Have you been happy here, Geneviev^e.^^^' 

“ Oh, yes, very happy, replied Genevieve, warmly. 

“ I am so glad. Still, I do not think it well to leave you 
here longer. It is scarcely the position Monsieur Monteres 
would have chosen for his daughter, or to which the daughter 
of Monsieur Monteres is justly entitled. My plan for you is 
this. I hope, it will meet your approval. I intend to place 
you, for the present, as a boarder in some convent where you 
will enjoy the advantages young ladies ought to have, and will 
also be able to complete your education. Being a Protestant, I 
might find it difficult to fix upon one in ail respects suitable. 


136 


aENEVIEVE. 


and I could hardly trust my own judgment in the matter. 
But Madame de Clievres will assist me in the selection; and 
perhaps your protectress, Mademoiselle de Eoannez, will be 
kind enough also to give us her assistance. Both these ladies 
are well known, not only for their piety, but also for their 
Jansenist sympathies; and I should be exceedingly sorry to 
send you where you would be exposed to influences of another 
kind. 1 know too well the insidious and dangerous arts of the 
Jesuits, and of- their imitators.'’^ 

“ Dear Edouard, I am infinitely grateful to you. But — may 
I not stay where 1 am?'’^ 

Edouard looked surprised, and perhaps a little disappoint- 
ed. “You do not wish it, really?’^ he said. “ You only 
say it to spare me, as you imagine, some cost and some 
trouble. It is like you. You were always a good, unselfish 
little sister.'’" 

“No, indeed, I am not,"" Genevieve protested. “ Good 
people always do what they do not like or wish; and I like to 
stay with mademoiselle, and wish it with all my heart. I am 
not unselfish either; for I was not thinking of pleasing you, 
but wholly of pleasing myself."" 

“ If you wish to please me,"" said Edouard, “ you will allow 
me to provide for you, just as I would provide for a young 
sister of my own. But you surprise me, Genevieve. I won- 
der what attaches you so strongly to this place. Tell me, 
dear, is there anything I do not know as yet.^ Perhaps I am 
forgetting that my little sister is not still a child. Monsieur 
de Eoannez, in speaking of you yesterday, which he did most 
warmly, dropped a hint about one of his gentlemen, a certain 
Monsieur de Viremont."" 

“ Oh, no! there is nothing in all that — nothing,"" Genevieve 
answered, eagerly. “ Monsieur de Viremont is very good- 
natured, and I like him well enough. But he sees now that 
there is no use in talking nonsense, and he will never try it 
with me again. No, it is only mademoiselle that I think of. 
If you love me, Edouard, if you want ^e to be happy, you 
will not take me from mademoiselle."" ^ 

“ Are you, then, so fond of her?"" 

“ I love her with all my heart. Dear brother, if you only 
knew her!"" 

“ I hope to know her very soon. Will you convey to her 
the assurance of my most profound respect, and say that I 
propose to myself the honor of waiting upon her to-morrow, 
if she will receive me, to thank her for her goodness to you, 
and to consult her about your future?"" 


GEISTEVIEVE. 


137 


“ I will tell her; and I am sure she will receive you gladly. 
Can you come about noon, ^or she is always at home then? 
to-morrow will be one of the mornings which she spends in 
visiting the poor and sick, and I attend her."^ 

^ ‘‘ Yes, I will come at noon. And now, will my dear little 
sister do me the favor to stand up, and to come this way, that 
I may see her face? Yes, a little closer, please. That will 
do. Thank you."" 

' Much wondering, and flushing hotly in the gaze of those in- 
tent blue eyes, with their strained, pathetic look of wistful 
earnestness, Genevieve obediently stood where he placed her, 
allowing the scarlet hood to drop ofl and reveal her luxuriant 
golden hair. 

“ Ah! I see,"" he said, smiling. “ The shower of gold rich 
as ever; the face — but I will not pay you compliments. 
Brothers do not flatter their sisters — they are proud of them. 
But 1 ought to apologize, as indeed I should have done at first, 
for giving you this trouble. My sight is dim; at one time 1 
thought it had gone from me forever. Then a sea voyage re- 
stored me in great measure; but during the latter part of my 
stay in London the dimness returned, and it has been increas- 
ing ever since. However, the physicians assure me that, with 
proper care, I shall recover eventually; and, so, by God"s 
blessing, all will be well. Pray sit down again, Genevieve. "" 

‘‘ May the little sister, in her turn, ask a question or two of 
the great brother?"" said Genevieve. 

“ Certainly, as many as she likes,"" was the smiling answer. 

“ Well, then, my brother "" — (for Genevieve shrunk a little 
from the too familiar “ Edouard "") — “ I should like to know 
all that has happened to you since we parted, and all that you 
are doing now."" 

‘‘ Bather extensive questions those! I shall take the last in 
order first. I am living with my uncle the Due de Graffont. 
Being but newly returned to Paris, I have no pressing affairs 
of my own in hand, so I am interesting myself in those of my 
friends, and especially of my cousin and his wife. Also 1 go 
often to Charenton, where Monsieur le Pasteur Claude, my 
honored friend, is anxious to engage me in various matters 
pertaining to the welfare of the community to which I belong. 
But my future course must remain uncertain, until I know 
what God means to do with this cloud — Genevieve, some one 
is approaching us from the house; two persons, I think."" 

“ Yes, it is Monsieur le Due, and with him, arm in arm, 
the Due de la Feuillade. They are talking quite eagerly, and 
I should thinkj confidentially; I am sorry to see it/" 


138 


GENEVIEVE. 

“ Why SO, little sister 

“Ah! because Monsieur de la Feuillade — But I will tell 
you another time. They are coming to us.^^ 

“So it seems; then 1 suppose I must bid my sister good- 
bye, for the present? But I shall claim a brother's privilege 
of coming often to see her. He took her hand, and pressed 
it in a strong and cordial grasp that seemed to promise for all 
her life the support of a true brother's hand and heart. 
Then he advanced to meet the two gentlemen, who were evi- 
dently in search of him. He exchanged a courteous greeting 
with Roannez, who presented him to his companion, adding as 
he did so, “You observed just now to my mother that you 
were going to call upon the Due de Montausier; Monsieur de 
la Feuillade is going there also in his coach, which waits at the 
gate, and he will be very happy if you will honor him with 
your-teompany.^^ 

Edouard accepted the obliging offer of a conveyance to the 
hotel of the great Huguenot noble; who was then one of the 
most brilliant stars of fashionable Parisian society, while he 
maintained at the same time a high and stainless character 
which won universal respect. Genevieve watched the three 
gentlemen as they returned together to the house, and thought 
with pride that her adopted brother looked, and was, the 
noblest of the three. Then she saw them pause on the terrace 
for a few more words of conversation. De Roannez seemed to 
be making some appointment with De la Feuillade. Presently, 
after a little polite contention between the two dukes as to 
who should take precedence, they passed in by the glass door; 
and Genevieve, who was burning to tell mademoiselle of the 
great joy that had come to her, followed their example, only 
choosing a less pretentious mode of entrance, by a little side 
door, which led at once to the apartments of the household. 


CHAPTER XXL 

A EEIENDSHI^. 

Genevieve flashed like a sunbeam into the somber little 
room where mademoiselle sat writing. Kneeling down beside 
her chair, she poured forth all her story with simple-hearted, 
child-like joy. She had found again the dear brother of her 
childhood; and found him again unchanged. Unchanged, 
that is to say, in goodness, kindness, and brotherly love; 
although he had grown into such a grand and noble gentle- 
man, “ with manners of the most distinguished,^^ and the air 
and bearing of a prince of the blood. Mademoiselle would 


GENEVIEVE. 


139 


receive him— would she not? And she would allow him, as 
i often as he pleased, to visiJ his poor little sister, who was so 
I honored by his notice? 

Mademoiselle listened to the recital with very mingled feel- 
ings. She had' not now to learn that the Due de Graffont's 
son and nephew had returned to Paris; and that the due and 
his son were reconciled, principally through the good offices of 
the nephew, who was said to have acted a very noble and 
generous part. She had also heard, not altogether with satis- 
faction, that Sister Marguerite, who had been an angel of 
mercy in the Hotel Dieu, iiad consented do resume her place 
in the world as Mme. la Marquise de vOhevres. But she had 
hoped that Genevieve, who now led a very secluded life, asso- 
ciating chiefly with herself, might remain, at least for some 
time, in ignorance of these events; and also that M. de Ser- 
court might not discover her present abode and position. But 
since it was otherwise ordained, she could not deny that the 
young nobleman had behaved with good feeling, tact, and 
delicacy. Supposing that he felt himself obliged, by grati- 
tude, honor, and affection, to renew the old intimacy, and to 
befriend and protect the child of his benefactor^ he could not 
have done more wisely than to assume at once the role of the 
elder brother, with its duties, privileges, and obligations. 
After some reflection, therefore, she answered the eager Gene- 
^/vieve with her wonted (3almness of manner; beneath which, 
however, the young girl felt her genuine sympathy, and was 
satisfied. 

“ Yes, my child,^^ she said, I will gladly receive Monsieur 
de Sercourt. His gratitude to your parent's, and his kindness 
to you for their sakes, do him infinite honor. But, never- 
theless, we will not allow him to part us — will we, Gene- 
vieve?’^ 

Edouard was true to his appointment the next day; and he 
enjoyed the privilege of a long and private interview with 
mademoiselle — so long, indeed, that Genevieve, who was most 
anxious to know the impression her adopted brother would 
make upon her idolized mistress, thought it would never come 
to an end. 

Nor, even then, did mademoiselle relieve her suspense im- 
mediately. But as Genevieve’s loving hhnds were binding and 
arranging for the night the abundant hair, which, in spite of 
its premature sprinkling of gray, was still so beautiful, she 
broke the silence at last. 

“ I think very highly of Monsieur de Sercourt,” she said. 
“ You are happy, Genevieve, in having such a friend. He 


140 


rTENEVTEYE. 


spoke to me about you with the utmost good sense and good 
feeling. I believe he is satisfied that you are well provided 
for, and happy in your present position, and that he will not 
seek to disturb you; at least not now. But if circumstances 
should arise to make any change advisable, he holds himself 
prepared to act a brother's part by you." 

‘‘ 1 do not know what I could want from him, except 
friendship," said Genevieve. “ You will not send me away, 
dear mademoiselle, and certainly, while I am with you, I want 
nothing." 

“ But, my child, there is another possibility which ought to 
be considered. You have not, as yet, definitely renounced the 
world. Should you at any time wish to marry, you are free 
to do so. At least, there is no positive obligation laid upon 
you to choose the higher life; the matter must rest with your 
own conscience. I might regret your decision, but I could 
not control your action. In that event. Monsieur de Sercourt 
is willing to provide you with a suitable portion." 

“ I shall never want it from himi" cried Genovieve, indig- 
nantly. “ To speak of such a thing! It shows how little he 
knows me. As if I would leave mademoiselle for any one in 
the whole world! But, dear mademoiselle — " she paused, 
apparently irresolute whether to proceed or not. 

“ Well, my child?" said mademoiselle, in an encouraging 
tone. % 

“ Dear mademoiselle, if you would do me a great favor, a 
very great one — I scarcely know if I ought to ask it — but I 
think if mademoiselle would show, or allow me to show, some 
of the papers we are copying — that is to say, I mean the copies 
we have made — to Monsieur de Sercourt, it might be the 
means of much good." 

“ There is no doubt that he would find them deeply inter- 
esting," mused mademoiselle, entertaining the proposition far 
more favorably than Genevieve had ventured to hope. 

“Far better than that," said Genevieve. “ They might be, 
with God's blessing, the means of his conversion." 

“ Conversion, thank God, he does not need," mademoiselle 
returned, confidently. “ I have never met with a person, 
still living in the world, who appeared to be actuated by such 
sincere and unaffected piety. It teaches us that God dis- 
tributes His favors as He pleases. His submission to the will 
of God, and his faith in our blessed Lord, are most beautiful 
and edifying. He is truly an elect soul; and I should not be 
surprised at any time to hear of his renouncing the world, and 
entering some religious order." 


GENEVIEVE. 


141 


“ But, mademoiselle, he^is a Protestant.” 

‘‘ Oh, no; you are quite mistaken there. I know he was 
one by birth; but he is converted, for he is now a devout and 
believing Catholic. 

“ Indeed it is mademoiselle who is mistaken. He has never 
been converted at all, I am sorry to say. I am sure I wish 
from my heart it were otherwise.” 

“ Then you have your wish without knowing it; the matter 
does not admit of dispute,” said mademoiselle, who indeed 
was little used to have her words disputed by Genevieve. 
“ He spoke to me to-day as no one could speak whose soul 
was not in close and real communion with God.” 

“ ytill, he told me yesterday that he was a Protestant, and 
that he hoped to remain so as long as God kept him true to 
himself, and to Him. Those were his very words, made- 
moiselle.” 

‘‘It is incredible!” said Mile, de Koannez; and after that 
she said no more. But she thought a great deal; and the 
longer she thought, the deeper grew her perplexity and be- 
wilderment. She felt as one might be supposed to feel who 
should see a manifest impossibility translated before his eyes 
into a fact which he could not deny. If a student of geometry 
could be imagined some day suddenly to discover 

“ That sides, by a curious juggle. 

Are sometimes less than their base 
That parallel lines, with a struggle, 

Contriv'e to inclose a space—” 

jje could not be more confounded than was mademoiselle by 
the information she had received from Genevieve. Touched 
herself by the quickening influences of the Divine Spirit, she 
had the mysterious but most real instinct by which the pos- 
sessor of spiritual life discerns its presence in another. With- 
out needing to reason on the subject, she knew and recognized 
the touch of the living hand. She had held that day with 
Edouard de Sercourt, in their long and confidential talk, such 
communion as they only can hold, the central thought of 
whose being is the same. It happened that no controversial 
subjects came under debate: Protestant and Jansenist might 
have conversed long together without trenching upon these, 
provided they kept either in the high, clear air of spiritual 
experience, or on the safe, level ground of practical duty, 
avoiding the “ central cloud region ” of dogmatic theology, 
vexed by so many storms. 

“ Other graces may exist, where the grace of Unity has. 


142 


GENEVIEVE. 


unhappily, not yet been given/ ^ said mademoiselle, to herself 
at last; but she felt, in the depths of her heart, that this was 
a very inadequate solution of the problem. How could a soul 
which was filled with love to God, be banished forever from 
His presence, and consigned to the society of demons The 
thought was not merely bewildering, it was inconceivably 
horrible. And yet Pascal — Pascal himself — had written to 
her: “ We know" that all virtues — martyrdom, austerities, and 
all good works — are useless outside of the Church, and of com- 
munion with the head of the Church, who is the pope. 1 shall 
never separate from this communion, if God gives me His 
grace; otherwise I should be lost forever.'’^ Lost forever, 
with the dispositions, the feelings, the aspirations of a saint! 
Lost forever, loving Christ, desiring above all things to serve 
Him, and willing at need to die for Him! She did not dis- 
pute the terrible sentence. When the voice of authority had 
spoken, she never disputed, she never struggled even. She 
submitted — but she suffered. 

It was natural that her interest in M. de Sercourt should be 
quickened exceedingly by the discovery of his spiritual peril. 
Might not such a noble spirit be rescued from the impending 
doom, and be won for the true faith? .And might not she be 
the instrument ‘chosen for so good a work? Henceforward it 
was not only for Genevieve^s sake that she welcomed and en- 
couraged the visits of the young Huguenot. Nor indeed did 
he stand in need of much encouragement. It would have 
been a quite sufficient inducement, that when he visited at the 
Hotel de Roannez, he usually, though by no means invariably, 
saw Genevieve as well as mademoiselle. But even had Gene- 
vieve been elsewhere, he would gladly, for its own sake, have 
cultivated the friendship of Mme. de Roannez. For he found 
the fashionable world of Paris very uncongenial. Although 
not so corrupt as it afterward became — although the unspeak- 
able abominations of the Regency, and of the age of Louis 
XV., were as yet in their infancy — thete was abundance of 
vice, and there was also a coarseness of ijftiought and feeling, 
to us almost incredible, plainly visible beneath the varnish of 
an unsurpassed artificial refinement. The celebrated Hotel 
Rambouillet, with its salon Ueu, and its society of learned 
men and cultivated ladies — where, amid abounding wit and 
gallantry, nothing was tolerated which was not pure and 
virtuous — was in its day a protest and a reform. But its day 
was over now, and its imitators had degenerated greatly from 
its tone and spirit; while preserving, and grossly exaggerating, 
the affectations whiqh had exposed it to the pungent satire of 


GENEVIEVE. 


143 


Moliere. It is true that one of the most distinguished orna- 
ments of the salon Ueu, the JIuc de Montausier, stiJl kept 
open house in Paris; and young De Sercourt gladly attended 
his receptions, and was proud of his friendship, all the rather 
because of their sympathy in religion. Montausier^s Protes- 
tantism does not appear to have at all affected his popularity 
or hindered his social successes, although it opposed an im- 
passable barrier between him and his dearest wishes. For 
twelve long years he adored with hopeless constancy the lovely 
daughter of the Marquise de Rambouillet, the great lady who 
presided, with inimitable tact and savoir faire.. over the brill- 
iant society which has given such celebrity to her name. All 
the fashionable world admired his devotion, and the delicate 
homage he rendered to its object; yet it did not seem to occur 
to any one, and least of all to the young lady herself or to her 
family, that the barrier need not have been insurmountable. 

It soon became evident that the only houses young De Ser- 
court greatly cared to frequent were the Hotel de Montausier 
and the Hotel de Roannez. In the latter especially he attained 
a position of the closest intimacy. The Due de Roannez, as 
men of his stamp so often do, loved force of character in 
others; and although his whole nature could never again be 
dominated, as it had been in the old days by Pascal, yet he 
admired Edouard, was infiucenced by him, and predicted that 
he would do great things “if he remained in the world. 

Still De Sercourt sought the society of mademoiselle in 
preference even to that of her brother. It became almost his 
greatest refreshment to turn from the heavy, scented atmos- 
phere of the fashionable world, where perfumes too often hid 
impurities, to the pure clear air of her devout and high-toned 
conversation. With her he found genuine sympathy, and he 
was able to speak to her without restraint upon topics dear to 
every Christian heart. It is true that after their first inter- 
view their conversations often took a controversial turn: but 
this was always of her seeking, never of his. They used to 
dispute for hours about the power of the Pope, the Invocation 
of Saints; or the doctrine of Purgatory; De Sercourt appeal- 
ing solely to the Bible, and supporting his position by abun- 
dant quotations from its pages; mademoiselle not questioning 
this authority— (as indeed she knew her Bible quite as well as 
he did, though she used a different version) — but claiming for 
the Oliui’ch the sole right of iiiterpretation,*and also of adding 
or completing what had been left incomplete or undeter- 
mined. To this claim of the Church to be the sole author- 
itative teacher and guide, they recurred once and again; 


GEKEVIEVE. 


lU 


usually concluding with a skirmish over the question which 
both felt to be the key of the whole position — “ What is the 
Church 

Still, however they might differ: 

“ Their thoughts were disentangled 
By no breaking of the thread.” 

There grew up between them, very quickly, one of those 
rare and beautiful friendships only possible between a man 
and woman who have, and can have, no thought of any closer 
tie. In this case, each had already enshrined in his and her 
heart an ideal wholly different from any which the friend 
could ever realize. None the less, rather indeed the more 
effectually, could each stretch out to the other the right hand 
of a cordial fellowship, such as is well expressed by the old 
word camaraderie. Still, their friendship differed widely from 
that of man for man, or of woman for woman. For one 
thing, there was on the one side chivalry, and on the other 
the admiration which a woman feels, and likes to feel, for 
genuine manly strength. Each respected, or rather it might 
be said, each reverenced the other. 


I 






CHAPTER XXIl. 

A RIFT IN THE FRIENDSHIP. | 

When winter changed to spring, and bud and leaf and ] 

flower, instinct with new, fresh life, began to obey nature^s ! 

great law of growth, other things, which had already been i 

growing in silence, came forth to the light of day. 

One morning De Sercourt called upon mademoiselle, who 1 
received him as she usually did, in a modest, simply furnished 
parlor sacred to her own and her brother’s use. When her j 
brother was not present, Genevieve often sat with her there; 
and there upon this occasion Edouard found her, reading to ' 

her lady. When, however, the first greetings were over, made- j 

moiselle said to her, “ Be good enough ^ fetch me the thick 
parcel, in a parchment cover, which you will find in the third | 
drawer of my cabinet. See, here is the key; and when that is 
done you may take some soup to poor old Jacques Nitart, and j 
learn how he is to-day.” 3 

Genevieve took the key without a word. Whatever natural 1 

regrets she may have felt that she was to lose the whole of J 

Edouard’s visit, she was far from entertaining a thought so 1 

rebellious as that Nitart might afford to wait another hour for j 

his soup, She came back presently with the packet— a very M 




GENEVIEVE. 


145 


I large and bulky one, carefully sealed — and, having laid it on 
i the table before mademcriselle, turned quietly to leave the 
room. 

Edouard rose and opened the door for her, saying as he did . 
so, “ i hope you will put off your pensioner with a short visit 
to-day, my little sister. It is nearly a week since I have seen 
you. Au revoir 

He returned, and took the seat to which mademoiselle in- 
vited him. 

“1 sent Genevieve away on purpose, Monsieur de Ser- 
, court, she said. “ I wish to have some conversation with 
j you upon a very important matter, in which she is con- 
cerned. 

A ^ladow came over the face of Edouard. There were two 
things which he greatly dreaded, and either of them might 
now have come. Mademoiselle might have received an eligi- 
ble offer for the hand of Genevieve, or she might have induced 
, her to resolve upon entering the cloister. But he only said, 
by way of not meeting trouble half-way, “ I shall be honored 
by any communication mademoiselle may be pleased to make 
to me. ” 

Do you remember having heard, in your boyhood, of the 
great lawsuit in which the father of Genevieve lost so much of 
his 2 )roperty?’^ 

“ I remember it well,’^ returned Edouard, relieved by this 
beginning. “ I have always thought he was most unfairly 
and unjustly dealt with. Often have I wished that the wrong 
might be brought home to the guilty parties. 

“ Suppose there were a chance of doing it even now, and of 
recovering for Genevieve some considerable portion of the 
property of which her father was unjustly deprived?'’^ 

“ Do you mean by the use of influence in high quarters, of 
which there is at present a good deal that we might command? 

I think the matter requires consideration. 1 see grave objec- 
tions.'^ 

“ So did I, and so do I still. Nevertheless, I have often 
d^lubted whether I were acting justly by Genevieve in making 
no use of certain papers which lie in my hands. As I regard 
you, monsieur, in the light of her guardian, I wish to acquaint 
you with the whole affair. I am ready to abide by your judg- 
ment as to the action that ought, or ought not, to be taken 
upon it. If, when 3 ^ou know all, you think it right to resort 
to legal measures, I shall not feel at liberty to prevent you, 
I';; whatever my private judgment may be.’" 


146 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ I have no fear that we shall disagree — at least, at 
present,” answered Edouarr^. 

‘‘Well, then, monsieur, I must tell you that about four 
years ago, shortly after Geneveive came to us, my ministra- 
tions among the poor led me to the death-bed of a clever but 
dissipated advocate, who had forfeited his place and his repu- 
tation by conduct of a grossly dishonorable character— with 
which, however, we have nothing to do. He was brought, 
as I trust, to sincere repentance; and among the many things 
in his past lifp which he bitterly regretted, he said that none 
caused him keener remorse than the affair of Monsieur Mon- 
teres. He had been the originator of the whole plot, the in- 
stigator and the counselor of that wretched Abbe de Gars, who 
was put forward as claimant of the estate by the enemies of 
Monsieur Monteres, while he was really only a puppet of which. 
they pulled the strings. In order to ease his mind, so that he 
might die in peace, 1 told thus much of his story to Genevieve, 
who took it in a very sweet and Christian spirit, and gave me, 
as I hoped she would, a message of forgiveness for the dying 
man. At the same time his spiritual director, whom I ad- 
vised him to consult on the subject, enjoined it upon him to 
. make any reparation in his power. At my next visit, there- 
fore, poor Monsieur Pliant put into my hands yonder packet, 
which he said contained documents that, properly used, would 
procure the reversal of the decision of the Parliament of Paris, 
before which, in the last instance, and after many appeals and 
counter-appeals, the suit had been carried. But he had not 
sufficient strength remaining to tell me either what these 
documents were, or in what manner they ought to be used. 
He could only say that, as Mademoiselle Monteres was residing 
with me, I ought to have the papers, and murmur some 
broken expressions of regret for the past. Soon afterward he 
died, in a state, as 1 hope, of sincere penitence, and not desti- 
tute of the grace of God.” 

“And what use have you made of the papers?"" asked 
Edouard, who had listened to the story wijh keen attention. 

“ None at all,"" returned mademoiselle. “ I looked them 
over myself, but I could make nothing of them. They seem 
to be a confused medley of legal documents and private letters 
and memoranda, thrown together without any order or con- 
nection, and most of them in very crabbed, unintelligible 
handwriting. In order to do anything with them, I should 
have had to place them in the hands of some one versed in the 
intricacies of law. But after all, to what purpose? Why dis- 
turb the mind of Genevieve? She is happy and at peace; she 


GENEVIEVE. 


147 


has everything she needs or wishes for. What good could a 
fortune do her, even sup|)osing we could secure it for her? 
Might it not only attach her to the world, to which at present 
she sits loosely enough? Is it not an evangelical precept to 
resist evil? Has not our Lord Himself said, ‘ If a man 
sue thee at the law and take away thy coat, let him have thy 
cloak also?^ 

‘‘ I do not think that is quite a fair application of our 
Lord^s command, said Edouard, wondering, not for the first 
time, at mademoiselle's curious mixture of simplicity and 
shrewdness. 

“ 1 am, as I have said, prepared to submit my judgment to 
yours, she answered, humbly. 

“ But did it not occur to you then, and do you not think 
now, that there is another person whose judgment and whose 
wishes ought to be consulted ?^^ 

“ If you mean my mother, because Genevieve was then in 
her service, I did not think it wise or right to name the sub- 
ject to her, for reasons upon which I need not enlarge. You 
know, however, that she belongs to the world. My brother I 
did consult, and he advised my leaving the matter alone. He 
thought it was far better for Genevieve not to know anything 
of this property, which, if she got it, might prove a snare and 
a temptation; while if she failed to get it, her mind would 
have been needlessly disturbed and distracted from the con- 
templation of higher things. 

“ And so you kept the secret, you and Monsieur le Huc?^^ 
said Edouard, with a slight air of impatience, and a sparkle 
in his blue eyes as he fixed them on her with the intent and 
wistful gaze of imperfect sight. 

“ Not entirely. We thought it right to tell Monsieur 
Singlin, the esteemed Director of Port Royal, as no doubt 
you know already. He quite agreed with my brother, and 
praised his indifference to the things of the world. 

“ And did it never occur to you, mademoiselle, or to Mon- 
sieur le Due, your brother, that the person immediately con- 
cerned had a positive right to be informed, and to be allowed 
to judge and decide for herself?^'’ asked Edouard, again, with 
a touch of impatience in his tone of which he was himself un- 
conscious. 

‘"But that was just the point upon which we were all 
agreed — Monsieur Singlin, my 'brother, and myself. We all 
thought it best for Genevieve not to know,'’^ said mademoi- 
selle, mildly, though with an air of expostulation. 

Edouard suppressed a word or two that rose to his lips be- 


148 


GENEVIEVE. 


fore he answered, in as mild a voice as her own, Pardon me, 
mademoiselle; but it seems to me that we have to consider, 
not what is best for Genevieve, but what is right and just 
toward Genevieve. 

“ Surely the same thing, monsieur.-’^ 

“ Yes; in the long run the right must be the best; but the 
right must come first always. And if we excuse ourselves 
from doing right toward others, on the plea that something 
else is better for them, we make ourselves, not God, the 
orderers of their lives.’' 

“ But it is surely right that older people should judge for a 
child like Genevieve?” 

Edouard’s handsome, sunburned face flushed visibly as he 
answered: 

“ At least, Genevieve is no child now.” 

“ Then, monsieur, I conclude you think she ought to be 
told of this?” 

‘‘ I do think it, mademoiselle; but, at the same time, I am 
certain that she will act in the matter as we advise. {Should 
it seem, on the whole, wiser and nobler to let things rest as 
they are, this wise and noble forbearance will then be, as it 
ought to be, hers and not ours.” 

” I have said I will not oppose you,” said mademoiselle, 
with a slight touch of that air of pious resignation which she 
was wont to assume in speaking to her mother. ‘ ‘ It will be 
best, then, that you should tell her. ” 

Edouard rose, and leaned against the mantel-piece, turning 
so as to face her directly. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, speaking very earnestly, though 
in a low, quiet voice, as if he suppressed some expression of 
feeling — “ mademoiselle, I may not do that, since there is 
something else which at the same time I could not refrain 
from telling her.” 

“ I fail to understand you, monsieur.”/ 

‘‘ I will explain myself. Indeed, I must do so, for it would 
be unfair to you to keep silence any longer.” 

“ To me, Monsieur de Sercourt?” 

“ Yes, to you. Mademoiselle de Boannez, to whom 1 have 
the honor to say what you said just now to me — that I look 
upon you as the guardian— as one of the guardians of Gene- 
vieve.” 

“ True; it is understood that we share the privilege and the 
responsibility.” 

“ My share will soon be surrendered. Either the office will 


GENEVIEVE. 


149 


be merged in another, oi> its active exercise, in the nature of 
things, must terminate/^ 

“ You perplex me. Monsieur de Sercourt. Are you going 
to leave France? 1 hope — I earnestly hope you are nof 

“ No, not now. But, dear mademoiselle, have I indeed, in 
the past months of intimate intercourse, shown such reticence 
and self-command that you — even you, to whom I have un- 
veiled so much — have never once guessed my secret? It is 
told in three words — Hove Genevieve.’^ 

Mile, de Eoannez grew very pale. It was not until after 
some moments of silence that she murmured sadly, as if to 
herself, “ The thing that I greatly feared has come, upon me."^ 

Edouard was disappointed; and yet this discouraging recep- 
tion of his confidence had its consoling aspect. Whence this 
keen vexation, if in mademoiselle's opinion Genevieve herself 
were quite indifferent to him, except as a brother? After a 
pause he resumed: 

‘'1 see that 1 have taken you by surprise, mademoiselle, 
and 1 beg of you to forgive me. When you have leisure to 
reflect, 1 trust you will perceive that my sincere and most 
respectful homage can not in any case injure or offend its 
object.'’^ 

“ Offend, monsieur? The world would say that Genevieve 
is but too highly honored^ But Genevieve is not of the 
world. 

“Nor, I hope, am I, in the sense in which you use the 
word,^^ said Edouard. 

“ In the sense in which the world itself uses it you certainly 
are not; at least you are not worldly, returned mademoiselle. 
“ The world would say that Monsieur de Sercourt proposes to 
2 ^, mhalliance,” 

“ With the world^s wonted wisdom and truth 

“ The world, reasoning upon its own lines and about its 
own affairs, is very often in the right, said mademoiselle, 
with decision. “ Monsieur de Sercourt, you will have to look 
far higher. Genevieve Monteres is, no fitting bride for you. 
Of these unequal attachments only misery can come — only 
misery.” There was something in the tone of these last words 
which made Edouard raise his dimmed eyes to her face with 
an earnest look of interest and sympathy. She answered it by 
saying, “ I speak what I know.'’^ 

“ But, dear mademoiselle,^^ he resumed in a pleading tone, 
“ you exaggerate the inequality, even in the world^s sight; 
and you forget how completely, how unusually, I am my own 
master, free to choose for myself. It is not as if I were the 


150 


GENEVIKVK. 


son, or the heir, of the Due de Graffont. I am only a young 
relative whom lie loves, and for whom, no doubt, he will make 
suitable provision. Even now I am somewhat at fault for a 
career. In earlier days I longed passionately to enter the 
army, and entreated my uncle to allow me to do it. He re- 
fused then, wishing to keep me at his side, and perhaps in- 
tending for me the future which will now, 1 hope, fall to the 
lot of his own son. Meanwhile, peace has been made in 
Europe, and the army has lost its att^ractions for me. If a 
soldier^s life be not terrible earnest, it is apt to be a very vain 
and idle kind of play. Moreover, this aftection of my sight 
rendered it doubtful for some time whether 1 could, even if I 
wished it, take part in the game. The same cause has kept 
me silent hitherto toward you and toward Genevieve. I trust 
I am not capable of the meanness of asking her to — to— 
How, thank God! — the verdict of the physicians, who, at first 
very hopeful, afterward seemed to find my case a perplexing 
one, is again distinctly favorable. If I refrain from study, 
and live in' the country for a few years, devoting myself to 
country sports and occupations, they venture to predict a 
complete recovery. So I intended to confer with you — but 
not just to-day, .Your confidence has in fact precipitated 
mine.^^ 

“ Then this has long been in your mind, monsieur said 
mademoiselle, with a troubled air. 

“ It has been in my mind for eight long years — since I was 
a boy of fifteen. Since then I have seen much of life, and 
much of men and women; many a lovely face, too, but never 
one like Genevieve^s. I kept the memory of my child-friend 
enshrined in my heart throughout all. At last I came back, 
and saw her once again. But I refrained myself, and kept 
silence, like the patriarch in the Holy Book, when he knew 
his brethren, but they knew not him. For I said, ‘These 
years have made the child a woman ; she may have given her 
heart elsewhere; or haply we may both have drifted apart and 
changed insensibly from what we were.^ So I made myself — 
not strange to her, indeed — but still I hid my feelings from 
her effectually under the disguise of frank, brotherly affection 
and familiarity. But the free intercourse this plan allowed me 
only dispelled my apprehensions, and increased my reverential, 
admiring love.-’^ 

“ I own, indeed, monsieur, that you have acted in the most 
honorable manner, and with the greatest tact and delicacy,^’ 
said mademoiselle. 

“ Such was my desire, at least, returned Edouard, mod- 


GEl^EVIEVE. 


151 


estly. The very fact that Genevieve is an orphan, toward 
whom I occupy — as you, mademoiselle, have had the goodness 
to observe — the position of a guardian, necessitates extreme 
carefulness. 1 can not be a judge in my own cause. There- 
fore, mademoiselle, if you will do me the great favor of ascer- 
taining the disposition of Genevieve toward me, you will place 
me under everlasting obligation. 

Mademoiselle looked uneasy, and a faint flush dyed h^r pale 
cheek. “ These things are usually decided for young people 
by their parents and guardians, she said. 

“ Which is what in this case creates the difiiculty,^^ replied 
Edouard. “ Here the guardian is at the same time the suitor. 
But, mademoiselle, I have this much to plead in my favor. 
Boy as I then was, I announced to Monsieur Monteres, in our 
last interview, the resolution which as a man I desire to carry 
out to-day. He treated it, it is true, as a piece of boyish 
folly, of which the Court and society would soon cure me. 
But, since I have not been thus cured, I have no reason to 
think he would disapprove of my suit if he were here to-day 
to judge. . Bather the contrary; for he himself asked me to 
perform toward Genevieve the part of a friend and a pro- 
tector.^' 

“ l3ut, monsieur, has it not occurred to you to consider the 
most important element in the whole affair — I should say the 
decisive element — the question of religion?" And now made- 
moiselle spoke eagerly, fixing her dark eyes on the changeful 
face of Edouard. 

“ Certainly 1 have considered it," he answered, calmly; 
“ but I know that, notwithstanding outward differences, 
Genevieve and I are one in heart. We adore the same Lord, 
we serve the same Master. " 

Mademoiselle shook her head mournfully, but decidedly. 

“ Were it otherwise, Edouard resumed, “ I could neither 
ask nor expect the Divine blessing. But, seeing that the de- 
sire of my heart is in no way contrary to the will of God, I 
may hope that He will give it to me, if it seemeth Him good." 

His voice was low, and broken with emotion, and it was 
some moments before mademoiselle could answer him. Then 
she said, very sadly: 

“ Many a painful duty Ms fallen to my lot in life, but few, 
I think, more painful than that which lies before me now. 
Monsieur de Sercourt, I respect and admire you with all mv 
heart; still, if 1 have any power over Genevieve Montoiey, i 
must use it to prevent this thing!” 

“ For God^s sake— .^" cried Edouard, impetuously. 


152 


GEKEVIEVE. 


He was not aware that he raised his voice, but it rang 
through ^he room and echoed in the corridor outside. 

“ Monsieur de Sercourt is a diligent student of the Holy 
Scriptures. He knows the Divine command, ‘ Be ye not un- 
equally yoked together with unbelievers.^ 

“ But here is no question of unbelievers. Have I not said 
that Genevieve and 1 are truly one in faith and hope — that the 
differences between us are only superficial?^^ 

“ Monsieur de Sercourt is indeed not far from the kingdom 
of heaven; but yet he stands without that kingdom, which is 
the Church of God. ’’ 

“ How can that be possible, when I love God, and am as 
conscious of His love to me as I am of my own existence ?^^ 

“It is indeed a great mystery. I am bound to believe it, 
but 1 can not reason about it — at least not now. My heart is 
too sore, for you and for Genevieve — my poor little Gene- 
vieve!'^ 

“ Oh !” A flash of light crossed the darkness of Edouard's 
pain and perplexity, prompting this sudden exclamation. 
Mademoiselle had unconsciously admitted much more than 
she intended. Perhaps this thought occurred to her own 
mind, for she hastened to add, “ It has always been my hope 
that Genevieve would embrace the higher life." 

“ That is to say, that she would bury herself in some con- 
vent? I do not call that the higher life," rejoined Edouard, 
scornfully. 

“ Nevertheless, our Saviour calls it so." 

“ Where 9^^ he asked, sharply; and, in truth, it would have 
taxed all the learning of Port Eoyal to find an answer. So it 
was fortunate for mademoiselle that he hastened to add: “ But 
a truce to argument, since neither of us are fit for it just 
now. Mademoiselle, I am ready to acknowledge that you 
have, and ought to have, a large authority over Genevieve; 
but there are limits. 1 have also, as it seems to me, some 
right to be heard. Allowing that a young girl ought in these 
matters to be guided by her guardians, which of course is in- 
dubitable, what is to be done if her guardians disagree? 
Would it not then be the part of wisdom and of justice to 
ascertain if she herself has any decided preference, or the 
contrary?" 

‘ ‘ In such matters good girls have no preferences and no 
wishes, save to do what is right — that is to say, to obey." 

“ B..t they may have their own opinions as to where their 
obedience is due. Mademoiselle, I claim but one right, and I 


GEKEVIEVE. 


153 


think I am justified in making the claim — I shall speak to 
Genevieve myself. 

“It is not doubtful what answer she will give you. Then 
why put her to this needless pain? Why disturb and trouble 
her mind? Monsieur de Sercourt, be advised by me, and 
leave Genevieve in peace. She will never consent to a sin 
against God and her own conscience.’^ 

“ How should 1 ask her to do so? If she thinks it sin, it 
would be sin for her. But I owe her the truth, and she shall 
hear it from my lips. I may well claim this much on my 
part, since your influence over her is well-nigh unbounded, 
and you can use it as you please.” 

“We were speaking, not of influence, but of authority,” 
said mademoiselle. 

“ That, I think, you will hardly try to use,” returned 
Edouard, significantly. 

Mademoiselle held her peace; for she was conscious that, 
after all, she had no legal authority over her demoiselle. 
Genevieve could leave her service to-morrow if she pleased, 
and if she could find any one to give her a safe and comforta- 
ble home. But the strength of her position lay in this — that 
she believed Genevieve would not please to do any such thing, 
that in fact she would rather die. 

Edouard at last broke the silence. He advanced to the 
table, and took up the sealed parcel that lay upon it. 

“ There is no need to prolong this conversation,” he said. 
“ I fear we are not likely to arrive at a better understanding. 
But, if you will permit me, I will take these papers with me 
and examine them. If I attain the goal of my wishes, it is 
likely — so far as I now foresee — that they may lie unusued 
forever. On the other hand, if I fail, a fortune independent 
of me would be much more acceptable to the feelings of 
Genevieve. In that case it would become worth while to use 
every effort to recover for her a portion at least of her father’s 
patrimony.” 

“ Most certainly. Monsieur de Sercourt; it is my wish that 
you should take the papers; and you will lay me under an 
obligation by examining them. Your sentiments now, as 
ever, do you infinite honor.” 

“ And further, may I ask the permission of mademoiselle to 
wait upon Genevieve to-morrow?” 

“It is full soon, monsieur; and I must say that I regret 
your determination to speak to her, though 1 do not feel at 
liberty to oppose it.” 

“ Then, mademoiselle, I have the honor to wish you good- 


154 


GENEVIEVE. 


day/' said Edouard, with a low and ceremonious bow, very 
different from his usual cordial, though always respectful, 
leave-taking. 

But mademoiselle advanced toward him with an out- 
stretched hand, and a faint crimson on her worn and faded 
cheek. 

“ Do not be grieved with me. Monsieur de Sercourt,^^ she 
said, with a touch of naivete not unbecoming to her. You 
can not know how much it costs me to oppose the dearest wish 
of your heart, perhaps also of — and you will never know it. I 
understand better than you think how young hearts suffer and 
break in silence; but I can not act otherwise than I am doing. 
There is no discharge in this war. God^s claim must be fir^; 
and I tell you plainly that I shall not fail to set that claim 
before Genevieve. If to this inevitable pain there must be 
joined the added pain of losing your friendship, there is no 
more to say, except only to ask your forgiveness, which I do 
very earnestly. 

Edouard accepted the outstretched hand, bowed over it, and 
kissed it; but he could not say that he had nothing to forgive, 
or that he could forgive without a struggle. Whaj: he said 
was this: “ I forgive you," mademoiselle; as 1 hope to be for- 
given. Mistaken as I think you now, I still believe you one 
of the noblest and saintliest women it has ever been my privi- 
lege to know. May God guide us both, and show us His will! 
For 1 warn you, on my part, that I will not surrender the 
dream of youth and the purpose of manhood without doing all ’ 
that man may lawfully do to fulfill it. An revoir, made- 
moiselle!^^ 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CONFLICT* 

“ I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honor more. ’ ’ 

The next day Edouard presented himself at the gate of the 
Hotel de Roannez. The porter, who knew him well as an 
Jiahitue of the house, informed him that M. le Due was from 
home, and that mademoiselle did not “ receive, since Mme. 
la Duchesse was seriouly indisposed. 

Edouard expressed suitable concern, and then inquired for 
Mile. Mon teres. He was conducted to the parlor where his 
last interview with mademoiselle had taken place; and there 
he found Genevieve, who rose to meet him, her look, which 


GENEVIEVE. 


155 


had been grave and anxioais when he entered, changing rapidly 
with the bright flush of welcome which lent an added charm 
to her lovely face. As Edouard drew near to salute the hand 
she held out to him, he stumbled over something on the floor, 
which seemed to his imperfect sight a shapeless bundle of black 
and scarlet. 

“ Ah, monsieur, take care she said, as, with a light and 
graceful touch, which none the less sent a quiver through the 
strong man^s frame, she piloted him safely past the ofctacle 
to a seat near her. “ That is poor little Zoro. I found him 
sobbing at the door of the chamber of madame; her women 
would not let him in, and the lackeys outside mocked and 
teased him, calling him, as they all do, a mischievous little 
plague. So I brought him here, and comforted him with 
cakes and chocolate, as you see — glancing at the table, on 
which stood an empty cup and a plate of oubliettes. “ Now 
he is asleep, poor child, and he is like to sleep long and 
soundly, as he was awake all night. 

“ Is madame then so very ill?"^ 

“ She is better now, but all yesterday and most of the night 
she was very ill, and in great suffering. Mademoiselle was 
sent for to go to her soon after you left, and she has been 
with her ever since. I am so grieved for mademoiselle. 

“ No wonder. I am grieved for her also, dear Genevieve.-’^ 

“ And you will pray for her and for madame?'’^ asked 
Genevieve, ii^^ seeming forgetfulness of their difference of 
creed. “ 1 have been praying most of the night, and also this 
morning. There was nothing else I could find to do, except 
to comfort poor little Zoro. And it is so weary to sit doing 
nothing when youj heart is heavy, and you are very, very 
anxious. 

“That indeed it is,^^ Edouard acquiesced. “But could 
you not assist mademoiselle in her cares for her mother?^^ 

“ Oh, no; she herself said to me — and it was the only word 
she had time to say— ‘ Go, Genevieve, and pray for us. It is 
all you can do; there are too many people about already.-’ 
That is true. The chamber of madame is only too full; and, 
besides, her people are all jealous of me, remembering the 
time when I stood as high in her favor as poor little Zoro does 
now.^^ 

“ But you say she is better?’^ 

“Yes; they tell me this attack is passing off. Is it not 
strange that whenever she is ill she sends for mademoiselle, 
and will scarce allow her out of her sight; although at other 
times she almost seems to. hate her, on account of her religion. 


156 


GEITEVIEVE. 


and speaks to her so bitterly, so cruelly, that no one but a 
saint like mademoiselle could bear it?’"’ 


“ It is the world’s way,” said Edouard. “ When sickness 
and sorrow come the most thoughtless like to have good 



Genevieve raised her eyes involuntarily to his. How ear- 
nestly he spoke — how grand and how noble he looked in his 
young heroic manhood! His was a finer face and form, she 
thought, and thought justly too, than that of M. le Hue. 
Mademoiselle, so rich in all else, might envy her poor little 
handmaiden this brave and beautiful brother, who had come 
to her in such a wonderful way, stooping down to her from his 
own high sphere, yet never for a moment letting her feel that 
she was beneath him. 

He resumed presently in a lighter tone; for., in fact, his 
heart had been lightened considerably by Genevieve’s admis- 
sion that mademoiselle had not spoken to her at all in private. 

‘‘ We must not think that mMame does not love made- 
moiselle because she finds fault with her. With some people 
scolding is a proof of love.” 

“ A very disagreeable proof,” answered Genevieve, in the 
same tone. “ I atti glad mademoiselle does not show me 
such love. Nor my great, wise elder brother,” she' added, 
with a little air of half-timid playfulness. 

“ What would you say to me^ if 1 were to begin now?” 

‘‘ I don’t know; it would seem strange. But I think — I — 
know — 1 would try to mend whatever you blamed in me, or 
to do whatever you told me. Surely, Edouard, you are not 
in earnest,” she added, stirred into vague uneasiness by some- 
thing she saw in his face. ‘‘ Is it that you have really noticed 
anything in my manners, or in my dress perhaps, that you 
think I ought to change? You know the world so well that it 
is quite possible. Please tell me, dear brother, if this is so; 
and I promise that you will not have to tell me twice. ” 

“ Hear little sister, there is nothing I would have you 
change. In my eyes you are just yourself, the sweetest, 
fairest, loveliest thing in all God’s world, and, as He knows, 
the dearest too.” 

“ Oh, Edouard!” cried Genevieve, crimsoning to the roots 
of her golden hair. “ What makes you talk to me thus? You ‘ 
never did so before. It is not like you. ” 

“ That is true,” said Edouard. “ I never did; because I 
wanted to win the less ere I sought the greater. But now the 


GEKEVIEVE. 


157 


time for such reticence has gone by. This is a new day, 
Genevieve, from which we must begin a new life. Sister and 
brother can we be no more.^^ 

‘‘Ah! why not? It was so sweet, faltered Genevieve, with 
a puzzled, bewildered look in her face, like that of an inex- 
perienced swimmer beyond his depth, but as yet only at fault* 
not seriously alarmed. 

“Because the time has come to change these names for 
better ones. Genevieve, dear Genevieve — he rose, and stood 
before her with the air of a suppliant — “ can you say to me — 
can you breathe, even in the lightest of whispers — words which 
will make mine the happiest heart on earth — ‘ I love thee?^ 

“ 1 love — my brother, said Genevieve. 

“ But I ask for a little more, which little means however an 
immeasurable difference.'*'’ 

“ Oh, Edouard! But I am not worthy. 1, a poor little girl 
— only a great lady^s demoiselle — I must be dreaming.'*^ 

“ Should you wish then to awake from the dream? Or may 
the dream go on, Genevieve?^^ 

“ No — to wake now ? Oh, no, not tliaV^ 

He took the bewildered, faltering, incoherent words in the 
sense he wished. 

“ Then, if the dream may go on, and prove itself, as dreams 
sometimes do, truest truth, give me a token — just lay thy 
hand in mine, Genevieve. Thank you. And thank God, who 
has given me this day my heart’s desire!” 

“ I must do what you tell me. But, Edouard — ” 

“ Well, my beloved?” 

Bright and glad was his look as he spoke, and full of joy his 
words rang out. Where were now the difficulties which 
yesterday seemed to lie in his path? With the heart of Gene- 
vieve throbbing in unison with his own, all was possible — nay, 
all was certain. 

But Genevieve could find no words. The flood of sunlight 
poured suddenly over her life seemed to dazzle and overpower 
her. She looked up to Edouard as the very ideal of all that 
was grand, noble, and chivalrous; and when, after raising her 
eyes to that splendid height, she turned them once more upon 
the poor insignificant being called Genevieve Monteres, exalta- 
tion at the thought that he loved her was changed into burn- 
ing shame and humiliation that she was “ so slight a thing ” 
to be loved by one so good and great. But all was as yet 
dream and vision, dimly seen and indistinctly realized, though 
felt with overpowering intensity. 

Edouard, who had the gladness without the bewilderment, 


158 


GEITEVIEVE. 


began to soothe and cheer her with tender words, “ speaking 
to the heart of the maiden in that old, new language first 
whispered in the bowers of Eden. Thus the minutes passed, 
unreckoned and uncounted by either — it was a kind of summer 
solstice, in which the sun of life seemed to stand still because 
il could ascend no higher. 

It was Genevieve who broke the dream. She drew pale 
suddenly, and shivered, as one who sees a specter. 

“ Oh, Edouard, what shall I do?” The words were a sharp 
cry of pain. “ Up to this moment I forgot — we have both 
forgotten — what lies between us. ” 

‘‘ I assure you, dearest, I have forgotten nothing, and noth- 
ing lies between us but faith and love. ” 

“ Ah, that is it — -faith, the faith. Have you forgotten that 
we can not pray together?” 

“ But we can pray together, Genevieve. In all that is deep 
and real, in all that our souls truly rest on, we are one. We 
adore the same Father, we trust the same Saviour, we seek 
the same Spirit.” 

“ But not in the same way. Oh, this is terrible! Edouard, 
you .have been tenlpting me to a mortal sin.” 

“Nay, my beloved, not for life itself would I do that!” 
answered Edouard, in a tone of expostulation. I acknowl- 
edge that it would be sin, for both of us alike, if each did not 
love Him first and best. But, seeing that we do — ” 

“ There is still the diffetence,” faltered Genevieve. 

“ The difference is outward and will pass, while the oneness 
is inward and will last.”* 

She looked up at him with a gleam of hope. 

“ The difference will pass, will it? Do you really mean 
Edouard? That would alter the case, of course.” 

“ It Vill pass, if not before, yet assuredly when we stand 
together in the sunlight of His presence. ” 

A look of bitter disappointment stole over the fair young 
face, out of which the glad light had faded, perhaps forever. 

Edouard drew near to her, and spoke with passionate ear- 
nestness. 

“Hear me, my beloved. Do not break your own heart, 
and mine, for a dream, a shadow. Do not heed what others 

* Nothing which is said above is meant to be taken in defense of 
what are commonly called “ mixed marriages.’’ They are a prolific 
source of misery and evil. But it must be remembered that Edouard 
knew Genevieve to be a true and devout disciple of Christ; and also 
that, from his point of view, she was already, though unconsciously, 
half a Protestant. < 


GENEVIEVE. 


159 


think or say. Judge and in this matter for yourself. You 
have the right, before God and man. 

“ ISIo, Edouard. No one has the right — to do wrong. ” 

“ Dearest, let us talk together re^onably about this thing. 
If your honored parents were with us now, we should both be 
bound to submit ourselves to them. That is in accordance 
with the Divine command; and also with the usages of the 
world, and of society. But, as it is, they are both with God.^^ 

Genevieve looked up quickly. 

“ Then we ought to do what they would have wished, she 
murmured. 

“ You are right, my Genevieve. When your father gave 
me his farewell charge and blessing, I told him I would return 
one day to claim your hand; and although he treated the 
whole thing as a mere piece of childish folly on my part, he 
did not hint that it would be wrong for you. The difference 
of creed would have weighed nothing with him. He honored 
me by asking me to befriend and protect you, and your dear 
and venerated mother. 

“ Ah! Mother, mother! If you were here now!^^ 

“ 1 will try to comfort you for that loss, Genevieve. 

Then she murmured something inaudible about made- 
moiselle. 

He took up the word with a tone of decision. 

“ Mademoiselle can not think for you now, Genevieve. She 
does not understand this thing, and she must noi^ interfere.?^ 

“ No,^"" said Genevieve, half dreamily. “ No, that is true. 
It is I, I alone, who must do it. Oh, it is terrible — heart- 
breaking!’^ She bowed her head upon her clasped hands, and 
sat thus for some minutes in silence. 

Edouard stood motionless before her chair, in the attitude 
he had taken up at first, one hand resting on the table beside 
him. No sound broke the stillness, except the calm and 
regular breathing of the sleeping child. 

At last Genevieve looked up, with the white, drawn face of 
one who endures, and tries to conceal, intense physical pain. 

“ Edouard, we must part. Otherwise it would be mortal 
sin — for me.” 

“ Now it is Mademoiselle de Roannez who speaks, and not 
Genevieve Mon teres. 1 will only listen to Genevieve.” 

She shook her head very mournfully. 

“ It is Genevieve who speaks, and you must listen, Edouard. 
We believe in one God, as you say, but not in one Church. 
How could we live together here, and part at the gate of 
heaven? Better part here than there.” 


IGO 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ Neither here, nor yet there, with God’s good help and 
blessing!” said Edouard, impetuously. 

She shuddered. 

“ Do not tempt me, Edouard. Nay, I will go further and 
say^ do not command me. Eor I am so weak, and you so 
strong; I am so foolish, and you so wise; I know not what idle 
words might be wrung from these poor, trembling lips — lips 
that even now can scarcely speak to you.” That indeed was 
true, for her voice was barely audible. “ Still, I know what 
is right. Dear Edouard, I am your little sister, if you will. 
But no more — never any more — though my heart break in 
saying it.” 

“But, Genevieve, think — ” 

“ If you love me, Edouard, spare me now. It is only use- 
less anguish — anguish more than I can bear.” She made an 
effort as if to rise from her seat, but sunk wearily back again. 

He laid a gentle hand on her arm. By this time his own 
face was very sad and very pale. 

“ It is I who ought to go,” he said in a low, hoarse voice, 
not at all like his own. “ It would be unjust and cruel to 
urge you further.” 

“ Yes; it is best for you to go,” she acquiesced; though not 
sure that all her self-command would suffice to keep her from 
calling him back before he was out of hearing. It did give 
way partially as he prepared silently to obey her, stooping to 
take up his pjumed hat from the ground where he had laid it. 
“ Edouard — there is one hope.” 

He turned to her eagerly, with new light in his eyes. 
“ Speak, my beloved.” 

“ It has just come into my mind. You say, we are both one 
in hegrt; if indeed you think so, what hinders our being one 
in faith?” 

“ Ah!” sighed Edouard, “ that is just what is impossible.” 

“ Impossible? Not on your side. Why could you not join 
us?” 

“ Is it better that I should commit a sin than that thou 
shouldst do it, Genevieve?” 

“ But listen. It is not for you what it would be for me. 
Our cases are quite different. You believe that we can be 
saved — I have often heard you say it — that mademoiselle. 
Monsieur Siglin, Monsieur Pascal, and the holy nuns of Port 
Koyal will stand one day at Christ’s right hand. While we — 
you know what we are bound to think, though it break our 
hearts. Can’t you see that with us you would be safe still, 
even if your faith were the true one? While, if we have the 


GEKEVIEYE. 


161 


true faith (and who can doubt it?) then your gain would be 
infinite. And who is there that would not risk nothing to 
gain all?’’ 

A gleam of triumph flashed across the sadness of her face as 
she looked up at him, strong in the might of her unassailable 
logic and her unanswerable plea. 

“ Genevieve,” he said, very gravely, “it is now my turn to 
j)lead for mercy, and to say ‘ Spare me!’ ” 

She took out of the words a hope that was not in them. 

“ Oh, but you will think of it, will you not?” she pleaded. 

“ That look in your face makes me wish my dimmed eyes 
dimmer yet, for it is almost beyond the strength of man to 
resist it,” he answered, passionately. “ My beloved, if only in 
that way 1 can win you, then must I forego the prize. There 
are mtany things in the world worth dying for — there* is one for 
which I could die a thousand times — but there is nothing 
worth a lie.” 

“ God would not let it be a lie for you. He would make 
you believe. And you would go to heaven.” 

He shook his head. “ It is not heaven that I live and labor 
for,” he said; “ it is Christ.” Then, after a pause, “ Would 
you have me sin like Peter, because, like Peter, I have a 
loving and forgiving Lord, who would not let my sin banish 
me forever from His presence? Perish the base, unworthy 
thought!” 

“ I never meant to suggest a baseness — how could I do it to 
you, my brother? For I may call you brother still, may 1 
not?” 

“ Yes, if you wish,” he answered, sadly. “ And I will try 
to deserve the name by faithful friendship. But never again 
can I call you ‘ sister!’ That day has gone by. All is changed 
between us; the greater love has swallowed up the less. 
Henceforth you are my star, my queen, ray well-beloved, 
whether you give me the right to tell you so or not. And 
now, farewell! Best for both of us it should be farewell!” 

Both preserved, with strong effort, a degree of outward self- 
command; for neither wished the other to see the pain that 
was being endured. “Do not say farewell!” Genevieve 
whispered kindly; “ say rather, au revoir !” 

Au revoir, then, let it be. I will not leave Paris without 
paying my respects to mademoiselle and my homage to you. 
Do not be grieved for Mademoiselle Genevieve; the watch be- 
side her mother’s couch may do more for her than you think. 
Meanwhile, what is to become of this little son of ebony? Let 
me try if I can help you there. ” 


162 


GENEVIEVE. 


For the little negro page had just awakened from his sleep, 
and, remembering all his sorrows, was beginning to sob and 
to utter cries with the unrestrained fervor of his race. In one 
breath he entreated to be taken at once to his dear madame; 
in the next he averred that she was certainly dead, and that 
now Jacques, and Pierre, and Thomassin would kill him, as 
they had so often threatened to do! 

“ No one will dare to touch you with such a strong cavalier 
as I am to protect you,'’^ said Edouard. “ Come with me. 
Zero; and my valet Henri, who is waiting in the ante-chamber, 
will take care of you, and bring you to see Madame de Chev- 
res, who gave you bonbons the other day.^-’ He took the 
little black hand in his, and gently led the weeping child 
away. He would have done much more than this to save 
Genevieve even the slight burden of a Childs’s tears and com- 
plainings. But this very circumstance' made a formal leave- 
taking impossible. He could only give Genevieve one look, 
saying, as he turned to go: “I kiss your hand and commend 
you to God. Adieu 

But Genevieve knew that, if she lived a hundred years, she 
would never forget that look. 

In another moment the door had closed behind him, and she 
stood alone. Alone very really, and as she felt then, very 
utterly. Could the words of an English poet written long 
afterward, have been known to her, she might have uttered, 
and partly relieved her sorrowful heart in the despairing mur- 
mur: 

“ And I shall he alone until I die.^’ 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

DOUBTFUL VICTORIES. 

Seigneur, je vous donne tout. 

Pascal. 

Conscience was making two martyrs, almost at the same 
time, in the Hotel de Roannez. That monarch of the soul, 
like other monarchs, is often disobeyed, not seldom even de- 
fied. But where his sway is most unquestioned it is not 
always most enlightened. He has been known to demand 
cruel sacrifices, as useless as they were cruel; and he has been 
obeyed with a courage, thoroughness, and self-devotion worthy 
of a better cause. 

AVhen Genevieve brought her story of sorrow and renuncia- 
tion to her unfailing refuge in the little chamber of mademoi- 
selle, she found that her friend was there already, and saw the 


GENEVIEVE. 


163 


trace of tears on her face. T[t was most unusual for mademoi- 
selle to weep; and the occasions were very few upon which 
Genevieve had seen her do it. But the friendship was now so 
close between them that she could venture to ask, in tender 
sympathy, “ What has troubled my dear mademoiselle?^^ 

“ Dear child, I had rather not speak of it just yet. Tell 
me first how it is with thee, Genevieve? Has not Monsieur de 
Sercourt been here?'^ 

Genevieve sunk down on the tabouret at her feet, and hid 
her blushing, sorrowful face in the rough, dark serge of her 
dress. Then gradually, and in confused, half-broken words, 
largely helped out by all that mademoiselle knew already, she 
contrived to tell her tale. “ It was so hard!^"* she said in con- 
clusion. 

‘‘ Yes, it was hard for thee, my child, mademoiselle ac- 
quiesced, as she gently stroked the bowed head of her young 
favorite. “ Renunciation is always hard.^^ 

“ I do not mean for me,^^ faltered Genevieve, ‘‘ 1 mean for 
him. He is so good, and generous, and true, so infinitely be- 
yond me in everything; he did not deserve that this should 
come upon him. No, he did not make it hard for me. All 
he said was kind and gentle, like himself.'’^ Here, at last, 
her voice failed utterly, and tears and sobs followed all the 
more unrestrainedly because of the reaction from the strain 
she had put upon herself during the interview with Edouard. 
For the second time in her young life she wept out her sorrows 
on the bosom of her loving and faithful friend — if not always 
at the same time her wise counselor. Mademoiselle did not 
fail to accord her praise as warm as a pupil of Port Royal 
could allow herself to utter. “ My Genevieve has done 
nobly, she said. ‘‘1 am proud of her. I knew yesterday 
that this was coming, and 1 meant to have warned thee; but 
it was not to be. My mother ^s illness left me not a moment 
to speak with thee. All was for the best. The renunciation 
is more entirely thine own act now.’’^ 

Presently she essayed to withdraw the thoughts of the young 
girl from her own trouble by an unexpected revelation. 
“ Genevieve,^^ she said, “ would it surprise you greatly to be 
told that I am about to return to the world?^^ 

Genevieve felt as if the solid earth was giving way beneath 
her feet. She answered with quick incredulity: “ I should not 
believe it, mademoiselle.^^ 

“ Nevertheless, I think it is true,'" mademoiselle said, 
quietly, and in a low voice. “ And I think— would to God 1 
were sure!— that therein I shall be doing His will." 


164 


GENEVIEVE. 


“ But if mademoiselle is not sure — Genevieve began, with 
a new anguish in her tone. The thought of losing her ideal, 
of seeing her adored mademoiselle descend from her pedestal, 
and walk among beings of common clay, was simply intoler- 
able. Was she to surrender both in one day — her heroine 
and her brother? 

“ The not being sure is part of my pain — of my punish- 
ment, if you will,'’^ answered mademoiselle, with sad resigna- 
tion. “We can not always expect to be quite sure of God’s 
will for us. But I think* we shall not greatly err therein if 
we choose the path which is hardest to our weak, sinful, hu- 
man nature.” 

To this misleading theory, which has enticed many a noble 
nature into terrible mistakes, Genevieve yielded a cordial as- 
sent. She had certainly chosen the hardest path for herself 
that day. 

Mademoiselle began to explain her position. “ All the great 
doctors and the high authorities of the Church are agreed in 
giving me a solemn release from the vow taken in happy days 
gone by at that blessed Port Eoyal. 1 can not doubt their 
power to loose as well as to bind, since our Lord Himself 
affirms it.” (Edouard not being present, there was no one to 
show that our Lord affirms nothing of the kind.) “Being 
then free to choose, it may be a fall and a loss to choose the 
lower life, but that it is absolutely a sin I do not think.” 

“ Is it not always a sin to choose the lower when we might 
have the higher?” queried the bewildered Genevieve. 

“ It would be so if we might have the higher without greater 
sin. Genevieve, my mother positively commands me to 
marry.” 

Words which she had heard before from the lips of made- 
moiselle trembled now upon those of Genevieve. “ The most 
perilous and lowest condition of Christian life.” “ As hon- 
orable in the sight of man as it is vile and prejudicial in that 
of God.” “A kind of homicide, and almost a deicide. ”* 
But she restrained the eager impulse to utter them, remem- 
bering luhose words they were. She only murmured, “ If God 
forbids what madame commands?” 

“He does not forbid: He only discourages. There are 
counsels of perfection, intended for those who aspire to the 
higher life. And why should I aspire to it? He knows I am 
not worthy. Perhaps it was only spiritual pride which made 
me climb the height, when all the time it was more fit for 


* “ Letters ” of Pascal 


GENEVIEVE. 


165 


me to have walked hinnbly in the valley. ‘ Seekest thou 
great things for tinsel f? seek them not.’ I think that is 
God’s word to me, Genevieve. It may be He would have me 
content to serve Him in common ways, and hereafter — if He 
will show me so- much grace — ^to steal humbly into the lowest 
place in His heaven. I shall be satisfied if only it is a place 
from which I can see the face of Christ.” 

“ Then I am sure that when He sees you there. He will tell 
you to come up near Him,” said Genevieve, fondly. 

“Ah, my child,” sighed mademoiselle, “there have been 
too many words like that whispered in my ear by kind and flat- 
tering voices. 1 did wrong to believe them. My heart has been 

g roud and lifted up, until I fancied, myself almost a saint. 

od forgive me ! all the time I was less than the least of His 
true saints. Nay, more: I was even less than an honest, high- 
minded heretic, like Monsieur de Sercourt, and the rather be- 
cause God had given me the grace of Unity, which He has 
hitherto withheld from him. What helped to open my eyes 
were the words of my mother. Yesterday she was so ill that 
I could not but speak to her of her soul and of things eternal; 
and, Genevieve, she told me then that but for me she would 
have made her salvation long ago. ” 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, how wrong — how cruel of her to say 
that! When you have prayed for her continually, and taken 
every means in your power to show her the truth, and to de- 
tach her from the world!” 

“ Child, her words were not wrong, or cruel. They had 
timth in them, though it was bitter truth. She said to me: 
‘ If you had shown religion to me in some way I could under- 
stand, I might have been induced to think sincerely about it. 
But when I see you making every one about you uncomfort- 
able, and setting at least one of the Ten Commandments at 
defiance, all by way of ministering to your own edification, as 
you would say — to your own exaltation, as I put it — I come to 
the conclusion that religion is only good for a few people here 
and there; and that we may thank God there are no more of 
them, since a world made up of such oddities would be a very 
unpleasant place to live in. ’ ” 

“ But, mademoiselle, are not bitter, angry words like those 
only proofs of what our Lord foretold, ‘Ye are not of the 
world, therefore the world hateth you?’ Ought we to give 
heed to such?” 

“ To the truth that is in them, yes — to the bitterness, no. 
They made me think of another word of our Lord’s, ‘ By this 
shall all men know that ye are My disciples,’ that is, by love. 


166 


GENEVIEVE. 


And 1 have not loved. I have been wrong, I think, in^ many 
ways. And now, through the darkness, I seem to see just so 
far as this. It is better for me to take the very lowest place 
hereafter with my mother there beside me, than to enjoy the 
beatific vision with the saints around the throne, while she is 
left outside forever. So we have made a covenant together, 
she and I. I am to listen to Monsieur * de la Feuillade, and 
she, on her part, is to listen to Monsieur TAbbe de Chaumont 
— a devout and good priest, almost, as if not altogether, one 
of ours.^^ 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, but the price is too great 

“For my own,«mother^s soul, Genevieve? Moreover, 1 
heard yesterday, what before I knew not, though I may have 
suspected it. She can not be long with us; for she is stricken 
with a mortal malady. She says she will die happy, and at 
peace with all the world, if only I — Monsieur de la Feuillade 
has good principles; he will not hinder me in aught that I 
think right; God grant I may not hinder him!^^ 

“ Dear— dearest mademoiselle, you will not hinder him, 
you- will help him heavenward. Only — God grant you may be 
happy 

“ Happy 9” mademoiselle repeated, with a mournful smile. 
“No, Genevieve, do not ask that for me. Happiness is not 
to be my portion on earth. I was happy in the oid days, 
while I was yet in the world, and knew, or dreamed— I was 
happy afterward at Port Royal, blessed Port Royal! Since 
then, my life has been all pain, and all confiict and struggle. 
I could bear it while the light lasted, whiJe I saw my way 
clearly, however difficult and thorny that way might be. But 
of late it has seemed to me as if my light went out, and 1 
knew no longer what path to take. Lacking the inner guid- 
ance, I could only accept that which came to me through the 
voice of others, and especially of those who have authority 
from God to speak to me. My director himself now advises 
me to submit to the decision of the counsel of conscience re- 
lieving me from my vow. And the best and wisest man I 
have ever known has left me this rule — ‘ Question thy direc- 
tor, and submit thyself to him.^ 

“ If I may not pray that you may be happy, at least I will 
pray day and night that you may be blessed, which is better, 
said Genevieve. 

“Well, dear child, God has many blessings to give, and 
even those who ‘ follow Him afar off ’ need not go without 


* Pascal, 


GEKEVIEVE. 


167 


their share. She who touched but the hem of His garment 
was yet made perfectly Vhole. So pray for me still, as thou 
hast ever done. Perhaps some day thou wilt do yet more for 
me.^^ 

A slight shade passed over the sad face of Genevieve as, 
mistaking the drift of the last words, she made answer — “ I 
will go with mademoiselle whithersoever she will. 1 do not 
think that anything can ever part us now.^’ 

“ Save only our own choice. If it seemed good both to thee 
and to me.^' 

There was only one way in which it could possibly have 
seemed good to Genevieve, and that way was barred now ; con- 
science standing at its entrance like an angel with a flaming 
sword. She was silent, therefore, and mademoiselle presently 
resumed: 

“ It seems as if all things were pointing in the same direc- 
tion for thee, Genevieve. God may mean me to present to 
Him in thee — what He will not accept at my own hand as too 
unworthy — the offering of a consecrated life. 

Genevieve looked up quickly — “ Then you think I ought to 
take the veil?” In truth it is from among the young hearts 
that bleed and suffer, like Genevieve^’s, that convents gain 
their best and most willing recruits. “ Willingly, most will- 
ingly. But not until mademoiselle has need of me no longer.” 

“ My need must yield to higher claims. And I own that it 
would be a joy to me to give back to God the best and dearest 
gift He has given me in these sad later years. But we will do 
nothing rashly or in haste. Meanwhile believe me, dear 
child, that I can feel for thy sorrow. Eenunciation — however 
clearly we may see the duty of it — can never be aught but 
pain, bitter pain. Yet it is in such pain that Christ draws 
near to us, and gives us the foretaste of His joy.” 

“ I know it, mademoiselle,” whispered Genevieve. 

“ And now go and pray for thyself and for me. I also will 
pray for thee. Kiss me, dear child. So— once more— lip to 
lip, and heart to heart. God bless thee! God make thee in 
very truth the saint 1 dreamed of being, but am not, and shall 
never be. ” 

Genevieve needed no exhortation from mademoiselle to pray 
for her. But she joined another name with her friend^’s and 
with her own. Perhaps, however, she scarcely breathed it 
audibly, but rather might have said with the poet: 

“ When I sue 

God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 

And sees within my eyes the tears of two.’' 


168 


GENEVIEVE. 


One word, however, she said aloud, as she knelt in her own 
little chamber before the crucifix of carved ivory, mademoi- 
selle’s gift to her. It was that word of Pascal’s, “ Seigneur, 
je vous donne tout.” She said it from the depths of a heart 
that was well-nigh breaking. Poor child, she was giving Him 
all the time what He had never asked of her. Her sacrifice, 
like the costly spices brought by the women of old to the 
empty sepulcher, was offered under a misapprehension. They 
indeed ought to have known better; while she, from the stand- 
point' of her creed and her training, could not well have seen 
her duty otherwise than she did. But we can not doubt that 
in both cases the love was accepted and the mistake forgiven. 

Meanwhile in another of the “ palace homes ” of the great 
city, another tried soul was struggling through -agony to 
peace. It was, perhaps — nay, it was surely the stronger nat- 
ure that had the most to suffer. But only one Eye watched 
the conflict and saw the victory. Very characteristic was it of 
both, that while Seigneur, je vous donne tout, was the cry of 
Genevieve’s resolved though breaking heart, that of Edouard’s 
inmost soul was this: “ Lord, Thou knowest all things; Thou 
knowest that I love Thee.” With both the motive was the 
same, yet Genevieve thought rather of the “giving,” the 
“ renunciation,” the pain; Edouard of the love. Edouard, 
moreover, had a fuller confidence in the heart of Him he 
loved, and a clearer apprehension of the truth that his own 
love to Christ was but the offspring and the reflection of 
Christ’s love to him. 

Afterward, a ray of comfort stole into his sad heart, with 
the thought that he could still do something for Genevieve; 
or, rather, indeed, that there was something which he was 
imperatively called upon to do for her. His whole nature re- 
coiled from the idea of allowing her to continue a mere de- 
pendent upon the house of Roannez. What if mademoiselle 
were to die or to take the veil? (No other alternative occurred 
just then to his imagination.) In that case she would be left 
without independent provision, to the charity of the great 
world, which he well knew was the coldest of all proverbially 
cold charity. And if she herself, as in his mournful musings 
he esteemed it only too probable, were hereafter to desire the 
shelter of a. convent, still a “ portion ” would be indispens- 
able; since Port Royal stood almost alone in the true charity 
of admitting indigent young ladies who possessed what was 
thought to be a genuine “vocation.” That she should owe 
this portion to his liberality would be, under present circum- 
stances, simply intolerable. He could not insult her by the 


GENEVIEVE. 


169 > 

proposal. It was therefore a thing much to he desired that 
some provision should l^e made for her, independent alike of 
mademoiselle and of himself. And might not this very pro- 
vision lie entangled and concealed in the mass of papers with 
which mademoiselle had intrusted him, and which, as yet, he 
had barely opened? At all events, their perusal would dis- 
tract his mind from mournful reflections; and, what was far 
better, it would be doing something for Genevieve. 

It was yet early when he returned to the Hotel de Graff ont, 
sought the refuge of his private apartments, and gave orders 
to the faithful Henri that he was on no account to be dis- 
turbed. Hours, which seemed to him like years, passed away 
before he wanted the papers, or even thought of them. At 
last, however, he took them from the cabinet where he had 
laid them, and carefully choosing his position, so as to make 
the most of the sunlight streaming through his window, and 
at the same time to avoid its glare, he sat down to his task. 
But it occurred to him that another duty had first to be per- 
formed. He rang his little silver hand-bell, and Henri ap- 
peared in a moment, to be charged with a courteous and re- 
spectful message to M. le Due, with whom he was in the habit 
of dining, excusing himself from attendance at the meal. 

. “ Monsieur will then be served in his own apartments?^^ 
said Henri. 

“ No; 1 shall not dine to-day. Do not disturb me upon 
any account — unless indeed Monsieur Claude were to come 
from Charenton to see me — until 1 ring for you again. 

He did not ring again until the daylight was fast fading 
away. Then he ordered lights and coffee, a beverage which 
was at that time a novelty in the Parisian world, where the 
prophecy ran, qu^l n^irait pas loin — that it would never be- 
come popular. Nevertheless, for any one who had mental 
work to do, it was, as Edouard rightly felt, far better than 
the more heavy and luscious chocolate. 

Henri brought coffee and biscuits, and even ventured, upon 
his own responsibility, to add a flask of St. Peray and a small 
venison pasty. He also carried a taper to' light the bougies, 
which had already been placed upon the table. 

Before doing so, however, he hesitated, and looked ap- 
pealingly at his master. “Will monsieur be so good as to par- 
don me? Will monsieur permit me to offer an observation?^^ 

“ Certainly, Henri. But be quick; for I am very busy."'’ 

“ It is just that — if monsieur will forgive me — I have the 
honor to observe that monsieur is looking much fatigued.^" 


170 


GENEVIEVE. 


“Not with this work, my boy. It is rather doing me 
good. ” 

Henri bowed. “ But monsieur will perhaps kindly allow 
me to continue?^^ 

“Well, then?’^ with a slight suppressed gesture of impa- 
tience. 

“Monsieur probably forgets that the physicians have ex- 
pressly forbidden him either to read or to write by candle- 
light. Expressly and absolutely. 

“ Then the physicians must be disobeyed. That is all.^^ 

Henri grew desperate in his great love for his master. 
“ Monsieur,'’^ he said, gravely, “ the physicians may be 
avenged. 

“No fear of that,^^ returned Edouard, carelessly. “ Now, 
my good boy, light up the bougies and leave me. I am in 
haste to finish. 

Henri was obliged to obey him, and to withdraw in silence, 
as soon as his work was done. Before he left the room, the 
eyes of Edouard had returned to the papers, which his 
thoughts had not quitted for an instant. At first they had 
seemed to him fragmentary, confused, and meaningless, like 
the contents of a lawyer^s waste-paper basket, thrown together 
without method or purpose. But by and by, as he read 
patiently on, he began to notice the frequent occurrence of 
certain names, in letters and documents of different dates and 
in various handwritings. Slowly and gradually he began' to 
trace the wavering outlines of a story; and as he read on these 
dim, indistinct outlines seemed to arrange themselves and to 
grow clear before his mental vision. Could it be that the 
Abbe de Gars himself was only a pretender; that the title to 
the property so impudently claimed by him belonged in reality 
not to him at all, but to his cousin of the same name, a lieu- 
tenant in the naval service^ dead long ago in the Isle of France? 
Here, indeed, there was a prettily tangled web to unravel; 
but if once he could succeed in unraveling it, great and signal 
would be the prize. The whole suit against M. Monteres be- 
ing thus proved to be without foundation, it would be easy, 
especially with the great influence of the two houses of Graf- 
font and Eoaunez, to get the decision of the Parliament of 
Paris reversed^ Genevieve would then be not merely inde- 
pendent, she would be a great heiress. 

The task, which at first he had found utterly distasteful, 
now became absorbing in its interest. With something like 
the keen passion of a sportsman, he tracked his game through 
a wilderness of letters, statements, apostillesj contracts filed, 


GENEVIEVE. 


171 


bills presented, petitions drawn up. Some liours ago, he 
would gladly have stopped, if he might; now he could not 
have stopped if he would. His pulses quickened; his breath 
came and went, his brain throbbed with excitement. The 
thought that his labor was all for Genevieve fired him with 
tenfold energy. The stars had faded, and the beams of the 
rising sun had paled the ineffectual light of his candles, before 
he looked up again from the pile of MS. before him. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WRITING OF GENEVIEVE AGAIN. 

It is not in the shipwreck or the strife 

We feel benumbed and wish to be no more; 

But in the after silence on the shore, 

When all is lost except a little life. 

Byron. 

Hotel de Roannez. {JVo date). — Once again, after 
nearly four years, 1 have taken out this poor little book, and I 
am going to write in its pages. It is because I have so little 
else to do; partly also because I am so lonely and so sad. 
The days are so long and dreary, no one ever corned here now. 
Stay, that is not quite what I mean. We ought to be careful 
always to speak and to write the exact truth. I suppose that 
what I really mean is this — that there is one who never comes 
now. I may write what I like in this little book, for no one 
shall ever see it, not even mademoiselle. 

We have just heard that the queen-mother is dead.* She 
was ill a long time, and she suffered much. Mile. Amand 
tells me that the physicians say the disease of madame is the 
same as that of which she died — a terrible disease called can- 
cer. I know indeed, that at first madame could not bare to 
speak of the queen-mother’s illness, or to hear any details of 
it; but that of late she has listened to them eagerly, and ques- 
tions every one about her on the subject, with the sort of curi- 
osity which M. le Due calls “ morbid.” 

Indeed, in every way madame is wonderfully altered. I am 
often in her room now, for she seems to remember her old 
fancy for me and to like to have me with her, either to read 
to her or to perform little offices of the toilet. She still rises 
every day and is dressed; she even occasionally takes a short 
drive with M. le Due or mademoiselle, in her beautiful new 

* Anne of Austria, mother of Louis XIV. 


172 


GJINEVIEVE. 


glass coaich, which is hung upon springs of sfeel, and so easy 
that its motion would almost soothe an invalid to sleep. 

She is so much more kind and gentle than she used to be; I 
even observe that sometimes, when she grows angry or im- 
patient about some little thing, she tries to restrain herself, 
which is very strange for her, and must come hard upon a 
great lady, who all her life has done what she pleased, and 
has been bowed down to and obeyed by every one about her. 

But the greatest change of all is in her bearing toward 
mademoiselle. It was ever a proverb in the household that 
madame must be always in extremes; and that she springs 
sometimes from one extreme to its opposite. Yet the house- 
hold can scarcely conceal its astonishment at seeing made- 
moiselle not only high in favor, but caressed, clung to, and 
even leaned upon, far more than M. le Due had ever been, 
though he was supposed to be his mother^s idol and treasure. 
Every one is talking of the caprice of madame, and of her 
sudden changes; but for my part I do not greatly believe 
either in the caprice or the suddenness. 1 am inclined to 
think there was always — hidden somewhere in her heart, and 
covered over with a thick crust of worldliness — a very real 
love and even admiration for her noble-minded daughter. 
When people are very angry with those they love, they 
often grow hard and cruel, the love itself seeming to turn 
into bitterness. Madame could not forgive mademoiselle 
for disappointing all the great hopes she built upon her, and 
making a complete wreck (as she thought it) of her own life. 
But now that mademoiselle has given way, and surrendered 
the great point of contention wholly to her mother, there is 
not only peace between them, but affection ^nd tenderness. 

Mademoiselle is not indifferent to the change; I can see 
that. Throughout all these sad years she has borne her 
mother^s reproaches and persecutions with wonderful patience, 
never murmuring, never answering again, never even admit- 
ting to any one (save, of course, to her spiritual director) what 
she had to suffer. But it is much pleasanter to be loved than 
to be hated; even a saint must feel that. It is well she has 
this comfort; for otherwise her life is very sad-, and I can see 
that a heavy weight. is pressing on her heart. We have seldom 
time now for any talk together. She is constantly with 
madame, to whom she not only reads and talks, but ministers 
in every way, however lowly or distressing, that her malady 
requires. She would do it, she says, for the sick poor, and 
why not for her own mother? I often fear she will exhaust 
her strength, and I sometimes fancy she herself would not be 


GENEVIEVE. 


173 


sorry if — But I was going to write something which per- 
haps I had better not intrust even to the keeping- of my safe 
and silent confidant, this little book. 

The good Abbe de Chaumont now visits madanie constantly, 
and she, who used to be absolutely rude to him (no, insolent, 
that is the word; great people are never rude, but they are 
often intolerably insolent), is now courteous and deferential, 
even submissive. All her people say she is going to “ make 
her salvation.'’^ Edouard would never allow any one to use 
that expression in his hearing. He used to say that our 
salvation is “ made already; a finished work, wrought out 
and completed for us by our blessed Lord Himself. That 
seems to me quite true. It has nothing at all to do with heresy 
or Protestantism. For surely we can not think too little of 
ourselves, or too much of our Lord Jesus Christ, and of what 
He has done for us. He is all in all, “ the center of all 
things,’^ as M. Pascal says. 

Ah, those happy days, when we used to work together over 
the MSS. of M. Pascal! M. le Due still gives me a little copy- 
ing to do for him now and then; but I believe the work of de- 
ciphering and transcribing the original writings has now been 
finished, and the grander task of arrangement and selection 
does not require the mechanical help of the copyist. I think 
that about the matter of selection, M. le Due and mademoiselle 
are not quite agreed. M. le Due and the great authorities of 
Port Royal desire in the first place, “ that which is good for 
the use of edifying, as the Holy Scripture hath it. They 
wish so to curtail, arrange, classify, and correct these confused 
but precious fragments, as to make out of them a good book 
of meditation and devotion, for the use of faithful souls. 
Mademoiselle, on the other hand, thinks every word which 
has fallen from that pen a sacred and priceless trust, which we 
have no right to withhold from the Church of God. But of 
late she has withdrawn almost entirely from the affair. “ I 
am not worthy this is what she says. Once, when her 
brotner asked her opinion on some point, she answered that 
she had none, and I heard her murmur afterward, “ None 
but the consecrated might touch the Ark. 

I believe that some of the holy nuns of Port Royal have 
written to her, reproaching her with much severity for her re- 
turn to the world, which they call her “ fall.'" I wonder is it 
wrong to think that they may perhaps be mistaken, not know- 
ing all the circumstances? There js another thought which 
hjoill come to me, and which I believe is seldom absent from 
her. Would the hand that traced those immortal lines have 


174 


GEN-EVIEYE. 


written words of condemnation to her now? If he knows 
about it now, in his high place in heaven, does he blame her 
for falling from the lofty sphere to which he sought to guide 
her footsteps? I do not know. Sdll, it seems to me that she 
is trying to do the will of God; and that neither glorified saint 
nor archangel standing before the throne can do any more. 

With regard to M. de la Feuillade, I am sure she feels as she 
ought to feel, and that she will do her duty toward him to the 
uttermost. He is a brave and honorable gentleman, and his 
constancy and perseverance are deserving of all praise. If he 
is not worthy of mademoiselle, that is not his fault. And it 
is only when one compares him with — with others, that one 
begins to 5nd him just a little commonplace. Mademoiselle 
will make no comparisons; and even if she did, her standard 
would be so different that it would be like comparing a 
comedy of M. Moliere^s with the office of the MaSs. 

Why has Edouard never come to us since that miserable 
day? Just two weeks have passed since then, two weeks 
yesterday, and we have neither visit nor any sign nor token 
from him. This is very strange. Not strange, indeed, that 
be should not visit poor me, with whom I fear he must be 
much displeased, but strange that he should not call, or even 
send, to inquire after madame, since he must know that she 
is ill. His courtesy is so perfect, so unfailing, that this neg- 
lect is the more surprising. 1 should think he had left Paris, 
but that he promised not to do so without seeing us once 
more. 

Some of the people of Mme. de Chevres brought Zoro back 
to us; and it was well they did, for madame had been asking 
for him. He had been petted and made much of by the 
ladies, but he could tell nothing about M. de Sercourt, whom 
he had not seen since the hour he brought him to the Hotel 
de Graff on t. Silence — silence — nothing but silence. It is so 
strange, so sad. Sometimes I think I can bear it no longer. 
But I must bear it, I suppose, and for all my life long — God 
help me! 

Mademoiselle — dear, dearest mademoiselle — what must you 
not have suffered in those long, silent, weary years? A\^ill my 
pain at last pass from me, as yours has done : or rather, will 
]t change to something else, which is not altogether pain? I 
do not think it — perhaps I do not even wish it so to pass. 

It is two days since I wrote the above, and to-day something 
has happened, something which is very strange, and which 1 
do not at all understand. But at least it is a token that M. 
de Sercourt has not wholly forgotten us. M. le Due sent a 


GENEVIEVE. 


175 


message, requesting me to come to him in his cabinet. Hav- 
ing first, with his usual courtesy, placed a seat for me, he told 
me he had just received a visit, which nearly concerned me, 
from the celebrated advocate M. Pelisson. 1 was greatly sur- 
prised, as indeed I well might be. Every one knows that M. 
Pelisson is not only at the head of his profession, but that his 
able defense of M. Fouquet, though it cost him four years in 
the Bastille, has given him a world-wide reputation, so that, 
now he is released and taken into favor by the king, no one 
can tell to what he may aspire. M. le Due thought it quite a 
wonderful condescension on his part to say that at the earnest 
solicitation of M. de Sercourt, whom he held in great esteem, 
he was willing to undertake the case of Mile. Monteres. When 
M. le Due toTd me this, I answered that 1 did not know I had 
any case at all for him to take up, and I suppose the astonish- 
ment I felt must have showed itself in my face, for he smiled 
as he replied to me: “I thought my sister might have told 
you before this that you have some chance of being a great 
heiress, but since she has failed to impart the pleasing intelli- 
gence, I must do it for her. Then he explained to me, very 
simply and kindly, how that unhappy M. Pliant, on his death- 
bed, gave mademoiselle certain documents, which, in his 
opinion, might help to undo the wrong done to my dear father 
in that lawsuit which cost us all so much pain. Mademoiselle, 
it seems, kept the documents by her unused till quite lately, 
when she thought fit to consult M. de Sercourt, who in his 
turn put them into the hands of M. Pelisson, mademoiselle 
having given him permission to do with them whatever he 
thought best. M. Pelisson gave his note about them to M. le 
Due, who showed it to me. 

M. Pelisson said he thought the case a promising, one, and 
would himself undertake to see it to a successful issue. He 
hinted something about “ a word from a very exalted quarter, 
which would set everything upon wheels. M. le Due says he 
has great influence, at present, with the king, although he is 
a Huguenot, which last . is perhaps the reason that he is so 
willing to oblige* M. de Sercourt. If, however, he is a favorite 
at Court, the chances are that he will not long continue a 
Protestant. I know how Edouard dreads the atmosphere of 
the Court, and the seductions the king knows how to offer to 
those of the religion. I shall be very glad if M. Pelisson suc- 
ceeds; for*then all the world will know that my dear father 
was in the right. But I do not care much about the money; 
nor indeed do 1 think that there can be much money left to 
care about when all is settled. However rich may have been 


176 


GEKEVIEYE. 


tlie estate of my grandfather, the farmer-general, about which 
all this trouble has been made, it will go hard with the lawyers 
if they leave any of it behind, after fighting over it all these 
years. But if they do, and if in the end it comes to me, I 
shall only care about it to spend it in works of charity. 

What 1 care about much more is that little note of Edou- 
ard^s, in which he prays M. Pelisson to lend the case “the 
sanction of his great reputation, having first, as a matter of 
course, obtained the necessary authorization from the friends 
of the young lady, and especially from M. le Due de Roannez.^^ 

I can not comprehend — I can not guess even — why Edouard 
did not ask for this himself. If he did not wish to see me, he 
could still have spoken with M. le Due. It is treating him, 
and all of us, just as if we were strangers. There is another 
circumstance which greatly perplexes and troubles me. I 
know Edouard^’s writing well (for he has made translations 
from English books for mademoiselle and for me), and that 
note was not written by his hand. I dare not say this to M. 
le Due. Where was the use? But I know that something is 
wrong — oh, what can it be? As day after day passes on, and 
this strange silence continues, my heart fails within me. I 
can not write, what I think, feel, apprehend. I am not strong, 
like mademoiselle; I am weak — oh, so weak! God have pity 
on me, for I sorely need it! Do I repent the sacrifice 1 have 
made? Would I, if I could, take it back again? That would 
be an abomination; it would be offering the sacrifice of fools, 
who vow and pay not, sinning the sin of Ananias and Sap- 
phira, who lied unto the Lord and kept back part of the price. 

No, I do not think these last words are quite true; and one 
must be just and true, even to one^s self. I have made no vow, 
contracted no bond for the future. I am only walking in the 
light of duty which God gives afresh day by day — “ new every 
morning. If only Edouard were to — But that is some- 
thing I must not write, must not even think of. God dis- 
tributes His grace as He will. Still there is one comfort — I 
can pray. 

Without that comfort what would -become of me? As it is, 
God knows my heart is heavy enough. Life is long; a bare 
bleak mad, seeming to stretch out interminably before the 
weary eyes and the yet more weary feet. Already I feel old, 
though I shall not complete my twentieth year for quite two 
months from this day. 

It is time now to put this foolish writing away, and to go 
and read for madame. At least I am a comfort to her, as 


GEKEVIEVE. 177 

well as to my beloved mademoiselle. And while this is so it 
is wrong for me to thinly my life quite desolate and empty. 


CHAPTEE XXVI. 

THE WBITIHG OF GENEVIEVE CONTINUED — ^AND INTER- 
KUPTED. 

Ah, my gossip, you were older, 

And more learned, and a man; — 

Yet that shadow, the infolder 
Of your quiet eyelids, ran 
Both our spirits to one level. 

E. B. Browning. 

Hotel de Eoannez, August IWi . — Again it is my birth- 
day. To-day I have lived in the world for twenty years — 
years very full, I fear, of sin and vanity. I pray with all my 
heart that the sin may be forgiven, and grace vouchsafed to 
me to devote the rest oi my days, be they few or many, to the 
service of my Creator. I had rather not think they would be 
many. It seems terrible to me that people often live until 
they are sixty, seventy, even eighty years of age — that is to 
say, four times as long as I have lived now! I feel as if the 
very thought would kill me. But it is not wise to write thus, 
or to trouble myself about the days to come, since I have not 
to live them all at once, only one by one. And as God sends 
each to me, I trust He will send me the grace to bear, and to 
use it, as I ought to do. 

There have been great changes here since I wrote last in 
this book. Mme. la Huchesse is no more. As I write it the 
tears fall quickly, for we all loved her, and I especially, to 
whom she showed so much kindness. Both M. le Due and 
mademoiselle mourn her very sorely, yet not as those that 
have no hope. She has made what every one calls “ a very 
edifying end;"*^ and M. PAbbe de Ohaumont, who attended 
her assiduously, was well satisfied with her penitence and her 
faith. Of course /am not any Judge, but I know that she 
loved to hear the words of our blessed Lord, and that she 
placed her sole reliance upon His mercy, and especially upon 
His sufferings and His death for her. 

Her end was very unexpected, and came much more quickly 
than the physicians anticipated. After one of her usual at- 
tacks of acute suffering, she just sunk quietly away. There 
was, however, time enough for her toireceive the Viaticum at 
the hands of M. FAbbe, whom we summoned as soon as we 
realized her danger. 


178 


GENEVIEVE. 


So we can scarcely regret that she has been spared more 
pain, which, especially with her temperament, she would have 
found it hard to bear. It is well with her, as we humbly 
trust. Still, death is ever a great mystery, strange and 
solemn, and full of awe. Such strange thoughts come to me 
as I sit here dreaming and pondering! I find it so hard to 
think of Mine, la Duchesse in that solemn spirit-world where 
all is real — among the “ things not seen, which are eternal, 
in the very presence of God Himself. There are some for 
whom it seems only right and fitting, and quite natural, that' 
they should go in there — my noble father, my dear sainted 
mother, and he whose hand touched me at the door of St. 
Sulpice. But madame, with her worldly tastes, her little 
vanities and failings! It is not well, however, to think of 
these things now; and, moreover, she had repented of them 
sincerely before the end came. 

Still, she exacted a solemn promise from mademoiselle that 
she would marry M. le Due de la Feuillade, as soon as the 
period of mourning should be over. Mademoiselle gave it, 
and without any visible reluctance; when she submits her own 
will, the submission is sure to be complete and absolute. 

The funeral, with all its stately pageantry, is over now, but 
the sign of mourning still hangs over the gate- way; and of 
course we are living in the strictest seclusion, save for the 
visits of condolence certain near relatives are permitted to pay 
to M. le Due and mademoiselle. Little news reaches us from 
the outer world. Still, I must own to the surprise I felt, 
when I heard that not even at the funeral — 

* * * * Ha * :1c 

So far had Genevieve written in the pages of her cahier, 
when a light knock at the door of her chamber caused her to 
look up and say, “ Come in!'’^ 

Zoro entered, looking less ugly, but also less pictuesque, in 
his deep mourning than in his usual gay trappings of scarlet 
and gold. He came to her side gravely, and without any of 
his wonted tricks and antics; and she was not surprised to see 
him, since her kindness to him at the beginning of madame^s 
illness had caused him to adopt her as his chosen friend and 
protector. 

“ Well, my child, what is it?^^ she asked, kindly. 

“ Nothing, mademoiselle,^^ answered the little negro, with 
a solemn roll of his eyes, “ nothing, that is to say, of any im- 
portance. Only that the monsieur who belongs to monsieur 
is down-stairs in the ante-chamber, and desires to speak with 
xna’amselle. 


GEKEVIEVE. 


179 


“ 1 doii^t understand you. And you know very well, Zoro, 
that we do not receive -^t present You had better request the 
gentleman, whoever he may be, to favor me with a message. 

‘‘ Mademoiselle will have to see him herself. He is the 
monsieur who belongs to monsieur.^^ 

“ Belongs to tuhat monsieur?’^ 

‘ ‘ Ma^amselle knows very well. The monsieur that took 
Zoro's hand in his and brought him away with him, that day 
that ma^amselle no doubt remembers perfectly/’ said the imp, 
with a look of mischievous intelligence in his keen black eyes. 

“ Henri Alfort!” exclaimed Genevieve, changing color. 

The boy nodded; then, coming closer to her, “ Ma’amselle 
is going to be ill. The face of ma’amselle is white. Shall I 
fetch a cup of wine?” 

“ No — no, my child. But stay; request Monsieur Alfort to 
come to me in the second small parlor. ” 

“ Bien” responded Zoro, with a grin that showed all his 
white teeth, as he ran off to do her errand. She betook her- 
self more leisurely to the place of rendezvous, for the too rapid 
beating of her heart somewhat retarded her footsteps. Still, 
she was the first to reach the little parlor; as Zoro took the 
precaution of withdrawing Henri from among the group of 
lackeys in the ante-chamber before delivering his message to 
him. 

When he entered the room, he saw a very beautiful girl, 
pale as marble, and dressed in deep mourning, with her 
luxuriant golden hair gathered up and concealed beneath a 
simple white cornette; while Genevieve saw a tall youth in the 
giiy livery of a nobleman’s valet, who stood before her, bowing 
to the ground. 

She murmured a word of greeting; then both were silent — 
Genevieve from many mingled feelings; Henri partly from 
respect, that his superior in rank might be the first to speak, 
partly from the sudden wave of reverential homage that swept 
over him, and seemed to annihilate him in his own eyes. At 
last he stammered out, “ Mademoiselle will please to pardon 
me?” 

Then she found voice to answer, “lam glad to see you, 
Alfort. Do you bring a message?” 

“No, mademoiselle, no message,” returned Henri, gaining 
courage. “ Monsieur de Sercourt, far from sending me, does 
not know that I have come. He would not have permitted it. ” 

“ Then,” said Genevieve, with a little flush of pride, “ then 
you should not be here. ” 

“ Mademoiselle will not say that when she knows all.’ 


180 


GENEVIEVE. 


There was a pause, which she broke with an effort by ask- 
ing; “ Is Monsieur de Sercourt still in town? We could not 
have supposed it, since he never called to inquire for madame, 
nor was he among those who attended the funeral.^’ 

‘‘ Yes, mademoiselle. Monsieur de Sercourt is still in town. 
It is true that he spent some time with Monsieur Claude, at 
Charenton, but he has now returned to the Hotel de Graff out. 

Something in his tone and manner, and in the evident re- 
serve with which he spoke, made Genevieve forbode disaster. 
There was a flush on her cheek and a quick catch in her 
breath as she asked: Has he been ill?^^ 

Henri hesitated, and looked on the ground. 

“ Tell me,^^ she added, gently, with an under-tone of sup- 
pressed emotion. 

Henri hesitated still. Were monsieur here himself,^^ he 
said at last, “ he would bid me choose my words, so that this 
should come to mademoiselle by degrees and gently. But 1 
can not — mademoiselle, I have no words to say to you but 
these — Monsieur de Sercourt is blind. 

A long, low, pitiful cry broke from the white lips of Gene- 
vieve. Henri heard in it the inmost secret of her heart, and 
knew from that moment that she loved him. Hitherto he had 
blamed her bitterly, now he grew tender toward her. 

Presently she contrived to murmur, “Not utterly ?^^ 

“ Yes, utterly; and — hopelessly. 

“ I can not believe it! When we saw him last he was much 
better. 

“ True, mademoiselle; he was then, to all appearance, re- 
covering. The physicians say he would Certainly have recov- 
ered but for that one fatal night. 

“ What night 

“ The night after his last visit to this house. He came 
straight home that day, and shut himself up in his own apart- 
ments. When at last, after many hours, he rang for me, I 
found him busy over a great heap of papers — law papers, they 
seemed. He gave orders that 1 was to let no one disturb him. 
Again, when darkness came on, he rang for lights, but though 
I ventured to remonstrate, and even to warn him of his 
danger, he would not lay aside his work. Far too anxious to 
go to bed, 1 spent the night in the ante-chamber; and 1 could 
see the light still burning under his door, and even hear the 
occasional rustling of paper. Still, toward morning I dropped 
asleep; but I was awakened by gome strange sound, like a kind 
of stifled cry. I sprung up and ran into the room. I had 
drawn the curtains the night before, but under and between 


GEiq-EVIEVE. 


181 


them the morning sun was streaming in. My master was 
standing ^at the window— he turned toward me when he heard 
my step. There was a look on his face such as I had never 
seen before. ‘ Is that Henri he said. ‘ Henri, is it night 
or morning?’ ” 

“ My heart died within me as I answered, ‘ It is full morn- 
ing, monsieur, between five and six of the clock.’ ” 

“ ‘ Then,’’ said he, ‘ God help me — I am blind!’ ” 

“ I can scarcely tell you what happened* after that. I be- 
lieve I led him to a seat, and stood beside him, both of us 
nearly silent. When it grew later, I sent a messenger for the 
physician who attends him, and of whose skill & has the 
highest opinion. He allowed me to send word also to Mon- 
sieur and Madame de Chevres, but gave the strictest directions 
that Monsieur le Due was not to be alarmed. He holds 
Monsieur le Due in much affection, and he, for his part, treats 
him like a favorite son. At last Monsieur Lenton came, 
bringing with him another physician, the great Monsieur 
Vignet. Mademoiselle, they gave him not a single ray of 
hope.” 

Genevieve’s lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no 
words would come. She seemed oppressed by a nightmare, 
conscious of some terrible pain, but unable to utter it by 
sound or sign. 

Henri went on: “He seemed at first to take it so calmly 
that I wondered at him, and thought he did not believe it. 
He asked Mme. de Chevres, who is a great friend of his, to 
break the tidings as carefully as she could to Monsieur le Due. 

‘ Best to do so before he rises,’ he said, for Monsieur le Due 
being an invalid does not rise until about midday. But he 
gently put aside her efforts to console him, saying, ‘ Hot yet, 
cousin; we will talk of it another time.’ When she was gone, 
he said to me: ‘ Henri, there is a business letter which must 
be written, and you must do it for me.’ Then he dictated a 
few lines to the great lawyer. Monsieur Pelisson: — ” 

“Ah!” said Genevieve, quickly. 

Henri looked at her white face with growing satisfaction, 
even with something arpproaching to triumph. It can not be 
denied that he wished to see her suffer, or at least he wished 
her to know to the uttermost what she had done. He resumed 
presently : ‘ He made me fold the papers up in a large parcel, 
and fasten the note in the outside, sealing all with his own 
signet ring. Then he told me to bring them myself, without 
the loss of a moment, to the house of Monsieur Pelisson, as he 
believed he was about to leave Paris, and delay might be fatal. 


182 


GENEVIEVE. 


It was on my lips to say that haste had been fatal already, but 
1 refrained myself and obeyed him, then as ever. 

“ When I returned, I knocked softly at the door, but he did 
not hear me. Then I took courage and went in. He was 
seated at the table, his head resting on his hands, and he — he, 
my strong, brave master, whom I have seen face death with- 
out the quiver of an eyelid — he was sobbing like a child.^'’ 
Henries own voice failed him, and there were tears in his eyes. 
But, as if angry with himself for having said so much, he 
hastened to add: “That once was the only time. And not 
even once did I hear him murmur. Only he sat apart in his 
own room, silent, caring, as it seemed, for nothing, and 
scarcely eating or sleeping at all. He would listen patiently 
to the condolences that were offered him, and give just as 
much answer as the courtesy that never failed him seemed to 
require. But I, who watched him day and night, saw that 
such well-intended efforts only pained him; ruffling, so to 
speak, the surface of his mind, without touching the depths 
of sorrow beneath. Even Monsieur de Condom'*' came to see 
him, I think, at the request of Madame de Chevres, and spoke 
to him with great kindness and with much sympathy. But it 
seemed to me that they only paid compliments to each other, 
and that the bishop did him no more good than the rest. 
Once, mademoiselle, I heard him speak of you; he observed to 
Madame de Chevres that he hoped that, on account of the 
serious illness of Madame la Duchesse de Roannez, you 
need not know of this at present, and that soon he would leave 
Paris, and then all might be forgotten. 

“ Forgotten !’* echoed Genevieve, in tones of intense, almost 
of despairing pain. “ Could he think it?’^ 

Henri went on, without seeming to heed the interruption: 
“ I was relieved to hear him speak of leaving Paris; for indeed 
by this time I was utterly miserable. I began to fear that he 
would waste away and die, having no vent for his great sor- 
row, and no distraction from it. I was still more glad, there- 
fore, when a day or two later he said to me, ‘ Henri, put up 
what 1 shall need for a week or thereabouts. I am going to 
visit Monsieur Claude at Charenton.'’ • 

“ ‘ The best thing you can do, monsieur,^ I ventured to say. 
And he added, with a touch of his old pleasant way that made 
my heart leap, ‘ The best thing you can do, Henri, is to come 
with me and be made a good, honest Huguenot.^ 

* The celebrated Bossuet, then Bishop of Condom, afterward Bishop 
of Meaux. 


GENEVIEVE. 183 

‘‘ ‘ Were 1 to be made a Calmuck/ said 1, ‘ where monsieur 
goes, there I go too. 

“ So we went; and I am fain to acknowledge that it was 
good for my dear master to be for awhile among his own peo- 
ple. They are very honest, well-meaning people, too, so far 
as I can see; only they are bourgeois, decidedly bourgeois. 
They lack the tone — the cachet — mademoiselle understands? — 
to which one is accustomed who has served the house of Graf- 
font all his life. And the cuisine was simply execrable: I 
suppose, since they do hot fast, they try to make up for it by 
spoiling their food. Still, for all that. Monsieur Claude knew 
how to make my master eat and drink; for which I shall bless 
that heretic preacher all my life, and pray for his conversion. 
He was a man of sense, and understood what to do. 1 once 
heard him say, ‘ Monsieur de Sercourt, you are willing to bear 
the will of God; but that is not enough. You must also do 
the will of God.^ And now, mademoiselle, to conclude — my 
master is back again at the Hotel de Gratfont — quiet, brave, 
and patient. He talks often with Monsieur le Due about his 
affairs; and indeed he is ready to listen to every one, and to 
take such part as he can in the things going on around him; 
but mademoiselle may guess whether it be not with a broken 
heart and a shattered life.^^ 

For the last few minutes Genevieve had scarcely listened. 
Her imagination refused to pass beyond the vision of Edouard 
— Edouard de Sercourt — sobbing like a child. Never, even 
when truly a child in years, and with his full share of child- 
hood's pains and sorrows, had she seen him thug. All her 
soul went forth in one great passionate longing to comfort 
him. But was that longing a sin? No; that she did not 
fear. In the knowledge of all that he had suffered — and 
suffered too on her account— she felt herself justified before 
God and man. When at last the voice of Henri ceased, she 
looked up at him, and said, simply, almost beseechingly, 
“ What can I do?" 

“ If mademoiselle would send a word, a token," Henri be- 
gan, eagerly. 

At first Genevieve looked perplexed. Then her sad face 
brightened. 

“ Yes," she murmured; ‘‘there is something I may send. 
Something, too, which he should have had ere this, since it is 
his own. " 

She took a ring from her finger, and with a trembling hand 
extended it to Henri. 

“ He will remember it," he said. 


184 


GENEVIEVE. 


‘‘ Even by the sense of touch?^^ questioned Henri as he 
took it. 

“ If you remind him of the vrords he said when, as a boy, 
he gave it to my mother on her fete day, ‘ I wislf it were a 
star to shine for you in the darkness. ’ Say to him there are 
stars that shine still in the darkness. 

“Yes, mademoiselle, I will say that to him.^^ 

“ Tell him my mother had it with her when she died. I 
thought it lost then, but it came back to me. So lost things 
come back again.’-’ 

“ I will tell him that too.-” 

“We will pray. He who gave back the priceless gift of 
sight, by the touch of the Holy Thorn, to the little pupil of 
Port Royal, Marguerite Perier,* may yet work another wonder 
for one who loves Him, and whom He loves.” 

“ 1 shall do the bidding of mademoiselle,” said Henri, with 
a wonderfully brightened face. “ The words and the gift will 
comfort him. ” 

“Not my gift— only his own given back.” 

“ As mademoiselle pleases. And now, if mademoiselle has 
no further commands for me, 1 pray of her to dismiss me, 
lest my master should require my services. ” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DAEKNESS AND LIGHT. 

Now Christ bless you -with the one light 
Which goes shining night and day! 

May the flowers which grow in sunlight 
Shed their fragrance in your way! 

E. B. Browning. 

It was a remarkable indication of the change which had 
passed over Genevieve that she did not carry this new sorrow 
to mademoiselle. She had entered a region now where no hu- 
man help or counsel could avail her. This conflict of the 
soul, by far the deepest and sharpest she had ever known, 
must be fought out in silence and solitude, with only God for 
witness and for help. In darkness too; for already the ground 

* An allusion to the so-called miraculous cure of Marguerite Perier, 
niece of Pascal, who was suffering from a virulent disease of the eye. 
The child — a boarder at Port Royal — was directed by one of the nuns 
to touch her eye with the relic, and the cure was said to be instantane- 
ous. Whatever explanation we may find for the circumstances — which 
were certainly remarkable — it must be remembered that the characters 
of the nuns at Port Royal place them above all suspicion of fraud. 


GENEVIEVE. 


185 


Was obscured by dim, confused issues. What ought she to 
do? Clearly nothing but to pray; that was always right and 
always safe. But then, what had she done already? Perhaps 
more than she ever dreamed or intended. What might that 
ring say for her? Thoughts came unbidden that sent the hot 
blood tingling through her veins, and flushed her cheek and 
brow with unwonted crimson. In her impassioned longing to 
comfort Edouard at any cost to herself, had she told him too 
much? 

But her thoughts soon quitted herself and her own perplex- 
ities. How could a subject so insigniflcant occupy the mind 
already filled to overflowing with one great sad thought — that 
of a noble, heroic life blighted ere it reached its prime? Were 
courage, faith, and magnanimity — were high and rare gifts of 
intellect, all to be rendered useless, except for the one purpose 
of endurance? Was every career of honor and ambition to be 
closed to feet so well adapted to scale the proudest heights — 
every hope shattered in a soul so keenly sensitive and so richly 
dowered? Gradually and slowly, however, through all the 
bitter pain of regret and longing, one thing grew clear to the 
mind of Genevieve Monteres. The man who could bear such 
a sorrow as Edouard de Sercourt was bearing it now, was cer- 
tainly “in the grace of God, whatever priests or doctors, 
Jansenists or Jesuits, or even Port Eoyal itself, might say to 
the contrary. At last her heart revolted against the conclu- 
sions of a hard and pitiless logic; and by reason of this revolt 
she was, though she knew it not, already on the road to Prot- 
estantism. 

On the following day M. le Due and Mile, de Roannez re- 
ceived some of their intimate friends who came to make their 
first ceremonious visits of condolence. One of the four large 
salons on the ground floor of the hotel had been hung for the 
occasion with black; and mademoiselle, in her deep mourn- 
ing, reclined on a sofa, since she disdained the practice, usual to 
great ladies in similar circumstances, of receiving her visitors 
in bed. To lie in bed when you were not ill was not a custom 
favored by the traditions of Port Royal. 

She had at first kept Genevieve at her side, to perform for 
her such little services as were necessary or customary. But, 
noticing her unusual paleness, and the look of fatigue conse- 
quent on a sleepless night, she told her to go for awhile into 
the garden to rest and to breathe the air. Genevieve, obedi- 
ent as ever, did as she was told, and with slow and listless foot- 
steps paced the narrow box-trimmed walks, until, half una- 
wares, she found herself close to the arbor where she and 


186 


GENE VI EVE. 


Edouard sat together on that bright winter day when first her 
brave and splendid brother came back to her. She went in 
and sat down, for her limbs were tired, and it was pleasant to 
rest in the cool and leafv shade. It was late in August now; 
and she said to herself as she looked at the drooping flowers, 
fading, some because their little day was over, others for lack 
of careful watering^“ Summer will soon be over now. What 
a good thing it is for the flowers that their day is so short!’' 
Suppressing a sigh of weariness, she drew a little volume from 
her pocket and began to read. It contained devotional ex- 
tracts from the writings of M. Arnauld, and breathed in every 
page not only submission to the will of God, but that love 
which alone makes true submission reasonable and possible. 
She read a little; but although her eye passed over the words 
she scarcely took in their meaning. In fact, she was growing 
too weary to think, or to struggle, or even perhaps to suffer 
much more. 

Presently she became conscious of voices and of footsteps 
approaching. Looking up, she saw beside the fountain, and 
already only a few yards from her, M. le Due stopping to 
point out some newly imported plant to Mme. de Ohevres, 
who was leaning on the arm of Edouard. 

She shrunk into the furthest corner* of the arbor, hoping 
that its abundant foliage might conceal her. There was no 
possible way of escape for her; if they followed the broad walk 
they must pass close to the arbor, supposing even they did not 
enter it. She wished at that moment that she could shrink 
into nothing, or make herself invisible. She did not fear M. 
le Due, who would desire to shield her, if he could, while 
Edouard — poor Edouard — would remain unconscious of her 
presence. But she greatly feared the quick eyes of Mme. de 
Ohevres, her frank active good nature, perhaps her intelli- 
gence. 

The event justified her fears. Either Mme. de Ohevres 
caught sight of Genevieve, or, more probably, she had been 
given the hint where to look for her. The foruier Sister of 
St. Vincent de Paul had now exchanged her gray serge for a 
fashionable robe adorned lavishly with lace and ribbons (though 
on this occasion all wore black, in compliment to the mourn- 
ing of her friends); but the same kind heartbeat beneath both 
disguises. “ Ah, Monsieur le Due, excuse me a moment,” 
Genevieve heard her say. “ I see yonder my charming little 
friend Genevieve. I must go and salute her. This way. 
Monsieur de Sercourt, if you please; just a few steps further. ” 

It was absolutely necessary that Genevieve should rise and 


GENEVIEVE. 


187 


advance respectfully toward the great lady, who, whether as 
Sister Marguerite, or as Mme. la Marquise de Chevres, had 
always shown her marked kindness. Before she had time to 
think, she found herself kissed on both cheeks and folded in a 
warm, almost motherly embrace, which gave the opportunity 
for a hurried whisper in her ear, “ My child, I know all; God 
has given thee a noble work to do for Him.'’^ Then aloud, 
‘‘ 1 want a long talk with thee, my child. 1 must supplicate 
my dear mademoiselle to lend thee to me for a little while. 
But another time. I am keeping Monsieur le Due waiting, 
who has so kindly promised to show me his orange-trees. A 
thousand pardons, Monsieur le Due. I am now altogether at 
your disposal. Monsieur de Sercourt will perhaps wish to 
take this opportunity to give Mademoiselle Monteres an im- 
portant message he received for her this morning from Mon- 
sieur Pelisson? I thought so. We will return in the twink- 
ling of an eye. Before either cavalier had the time, even if 
he had had the wish, to remonstrate, she exchanged the arm 
of M. de Sercourt for that of M. de Eoannez, and was moving 
with him in the direction of the orangery. 

For a moment the two stood face to face; Edouard keenly 
conscious that an unfair advantage had been taken of Gene- 
vieve by his lively cousin, and chiefly anxious to save her pain; 
Genevieve, on the other hand, conscious of nothing but the 
change in him, his look of suffering, and his pale, wasted feat- 
ures. She could think of nothing better to do than to lay her 
hand on his, and to say, in a voice -fealf choked with tears, “ I 
am so sorry, Edouard. 

He started, and his face brightened visibly at the sound of 
her voice. “ Are you?^^ he said, simply. “ It makes it 
easier to hear you say so.'’^ 

“ And it was my fault. ” 

“ Your fault, Genevieve?’^ 

“ Yes, my fault. Those wretched papers! I wish they had 
never been heard of. 

“ Who told you that? But, of course, it was Henri. Henri 
is a mischievous boy, and must be punished. Still, I owe him 
thaiiks,^^ he continued, more gravely, “ since he brought me 
your message and your ring, Genevieve. You, 1 can not 
thank. It was just like you. The best thing you could have 
done and the best words you could have said. But I can not 
trust m 3 ^self just now to say more. Only this one thing. You 
will be glad to know that your brother is not discontented or 
unhappy. Not now. At first, indeed, it seemed hard to lose 
all together. Those were bitter days; but they are past — past 


188 


GENEVIEVE. 


long enough to be thankful for, not long enough yet to talk 
about. But I think that the word has come true for me, 
‘ The Lord shall be thy light. ^ 

He paused for a moment or two, and then, as Genevieve 
was too much moved to speak, he resumed, “ It seems strange 
that I should talk to you of myself; especially when this op- 
portunity was given me on purpose to talk of your affairs. 
But I knew my little sister would care to hear thus much. 
And I must add yet one word more. It was altogether my 
fault about these papers; mine, not thine. Thy father knew 
well this failing, even in my boyhood, and he often warned 
me against it. When I had once determined to do a thing, 
nothing could ever induce me to give it up, or to leave off 
until I had finished it. Do you remember the day I nearly 
got a sunstroke rowing in the heat on the river, because I had 
vowed that I would beat Marc Antoine, the swiftest oarsman 
of the district? But I lost the profit of thy father^s lecture, 
thy mother cared for . me so tenderly. And thou, too, Gene- 
vieve, my little fair-haired sister ten years old. I still feel thy 
soft hand touching mine — 

“ Like this, Edouard ?^^ Genevieve could not help saying, 
though she said it very timidly. ‘ ‘ See, I want you to sit 
down. You will be tired. 

He obeyed her with a brightening face, and she took a seat 
beside him. “ But you must not treat me as an invalid, and 
think of me as such,"’"’ he said. “ I am now in good health, 
thank God. And I think there are still many things which I 
can do for Him in His world. I can ‘ look upon the afflictions 
of my people,^ at least with the mental eye — and I can give 
them sympathy and succor. 

“ Your people?’" 

‘‘ My brethren in the faith, over whom I fear the storms 
are gathering now. Already every insidious art of seduction 
or flattery is brought to bear upon those in high places. To 
come within the atmosphere of the Court and under the per- 
sonal influence of the king is almost in itself an abjuration. 
Turenne has forsaken us — Pelisson, your advocate, is about to 
follow his example; and, alas! that I must say it, ouv-preux 
chevalier, the splendid and stainless Montausier, is ours no 
longer now. 1 seem to hear, as of old, the mournful chal- 
lenge, ‘ Will you also go away?" ” 

“ I think it would be base to give up one’s faith, even 
though it were a mistaken one, for worldly honor and advan- 
tage,” said Genevieve, impulsively. 

“ It was not for worldly honor or advantage that Montau- 


GENEVIEVE. 189 

sier surrendered his, but for something far more precious. Did 
he do basely, Genevieve 

Genevieve, instead of answering, plucked a rose and pulled 
it to pieces. 

“For those twelve years that he held out steadfastly, con- 
tent to forego his dearest earthly hopes,, and to worship Made- 
moiselle d’Angennes only at a distance, as his star — did he do 
well, Genevieve? Had it been well for him if he had con- 
tinued steadfast, even to the end?’^* 

“Yes — oh, yes. ' Wdl for 

“Now I. thank God for that word of thine, Genevieve. It 
makes some things easier for me to bear. And since I am 
going to leave Paris, and to live far away, and it is possible — 
nay, probable— that we may never meet again, pardon me, if 
this once only I speak of the past. After all, what is, is best. 
Stricken as I am now, it goes without saying that I could not 
— that had there been no other obstacle, this trouble in itself 
must have ended all.^^ 

“ Edouard! — Edouard the words were a sharp, uncon- 
scious cry of pain. “ Can you think thus of me? On the 
contrary — just that — ever since — is breaking my heart. 

No one could mistake the ring of genuine anguish in her 
voice, anguish that had broken at last through all the barriers 
of reserve. He turned toward her with the light of a new joy 
beaming in his darkened face. 

“ Then I may take with me the comfort of knowing that it 
is only my lack of spiritual light (as you deem it) that keeps 
us apart? 

“ I think,^^ said Genevieve, quite unconscious of the tre- 
mendous admission, she was making, “ I think that he who 
loves God, and does and suffers His will, is already walking 
in the light. 

Meanwhile Mme. de Chevres engaged M. de Eoannez in a 
very interesting conversation, as they walked up and down 
among the orange-trees in the conservatory — an expensive 
whim of madame's, gratified rather against the inclination of 

* The story of the Due de Montausier is historical, though his apos- 
tasy was rather earlier than is supposed above. Mile. Julie d’Angennes 
was the daughter of the famous lady whose soirees conferred such celeb- 
rity on the Hotel Rambouillet. Her end was very sad. She and her 
husband were received into the full sunshine of Court favor, on account 
of his apostasy; and the world gave her credit for promoting one of the 
guilty intrigues of the licentious king. The calumny was utterly un- 
founded; but it broke the heart of the proud and pure-minded Julie. 
Thus the Due de Montausier soon lost the treasure he bought at so dear 
a price. • 


190 


GEI^EVIEVE. 


her son and daughter, who were lavish only in their charities. 
Roannez was by nature an absent-minded man, ^nd his life of 
study and contemplation had not tended to remedy this defect. 
So he forgot, for the time being, the needs and the claims of 
Edouard, and thought he had abundantly discharged his duties 
to society when he conducted Mme. de Chevres back again to 
the salon, and found for her a fauteuil near the couch of his 
sister. Mademoiselle was occupied just then in receiving the 
condolences of some of those relatives of her mother who in 
former days had so bitterly opposed he| religious aspirations. 
There was on both sides punctilious, if not overstrained, 
politeness; but there could be no real cordiality, and she was 
not sorry when her visitors rose to depart. The tedious cere- 
mony of leave-taking over at last, she found herself, for a mo- 
ment, alone with her old friend Mme. de Chevres. 

“ Dear Sister Marguerite, she said, using the old familiar 
name, “ you will stay and sup with us, will you not? Mon- 
sieur le Marquis must, I think, have intended you to do us 
this favor, since he left us some time ago, with Monsieur le 
Due, who was fatigued. We are very sensible of the goodness 
of Monsieur le Due in coming to visit us, since he is so much 
of an invalid. ' 

“ I should gladly remain with you, my dear friend,^'’ said 
Mme. de Chevres, “ were it not for Monsieur de Sercourt. 
He might find it embarrassing, on account of his infirmity.^’ 

“ But he has gone home in the coach with Monsieur le Due 
and Monsieur de Chevres.'’^ 

“ Oh, no, my dear, he is in the garden. 1 left him there. 

“ Then I fear he had been forgotten,^ ^ said mademoiselle, 
looking much distressed. “ He will be placed in a very un- 
comfortable position. My brother came in with you, and has 
been ever since engaged with our visitors. How could he be 
so thoughtless? He will be terribly concerned at the contre- 
temps. I shall send him to him at once. Or, better still, let 
us go to him ourselves.^'’ 

Mme. de Chevres laid a detaining hand on the arm of her 
friend, and a smile played round her lips as she answer- 
ed, “I think you need not be uneasy. I have no doubt 
Monsieur de Sercourt is very well entertained. My pretty 
little friend Genevieve is with him in the arbor. 

“ Genevieve!^'’ mademoiselle exclaimed, a fiush of vexation 
mantling her face. “ I would have lost my right hand rather 
than this had happened. 

Mme. de Chevres, at once more practical and more senti- 
mental, returned promptly; “ I would almost have given mine 


GENEVIEVE. 


191 


to bring it about. But 1 found it could be accomplished at a 
much less cost than that. 

“ Ah, my dear friend, you know not what you have been 
doing! Genevieve is a sweet and gracious child, and brave 
withal, and true; still, it would go hard with her to resist a 
second time such pleadings as those of Monsieur de Sercourt, 
backed, as they now would be, by the eloquent appeal of his 
infirmity to her tender and generous heart. 

“ My dear mademoiselle, why in Heaven^s name should she 
resist them?^'’ 

Mademoiselle gazed at her less scrupulous friend in genuine 
surprise, almost in horror. 

“ He is a Protestant/^ was all she said. 

“ Very well; and this sweet child, as you truly call her, is 
ordained by Providence to the noble task of converting him.^^ 

“ If he were converted, all indeed would be very well.^^ 

“ It shall be very well, only in the right time. Have 
patience, dear frienA And for once, may 1 venture to en- 
treat of you to look at the facts of the world we live in, apart 
from the edifying but impracticable sublimities you learned at 
Port Royal.^'' 

“ At least we were taught at Port Royal not to do evil that 
good might come. We left that to the Jesuits and their apol- 
ogists,^' said mademoiselle a little bitterly. 

“ Monsieur de Condom, I am sure, would not sanction any- 
thing that had an evil tendency," Mine, de Chevres answered, 
apologetically. Since her return to the world she had been 
fascinated by the eloquence of Bossuet, and was coming grad- 
ually more and more under his influence. But she knew him 
to be an object of distrust and dislike to her friend, who 
missed in his vaunted orations just that “ touch of the living 
hand " her own renewed nature understood so well, and was 
disgusted moreover at his hostility to the Jansenis.ts, and his 
subservience to a licentious court and monarch. Aware, how- 
ever, that a feminine wrangle on this topic would only damage 
her cause, Mme. de Chevres hastened to resume: 

“ Consider, my dear mademoiselle, the importance of the 
occasion. Such a noble, heroic soul to be won back to the 
true fold! Even you can scarcely know him as I do. I will 
not speak now of what he has done for dear Leon and for me; 
although there was not one man in a thousand who would not, 
in his place, have rejoiced at the double estrangement, and 
sought to perpetuate it. And after all that, Genevieve Mon- 
teres must needs refuse him! I must not say what I think of 
the wisdom of that proceeding, since I presume the girl acted 


192 


GENEVIEVE. 


under your advice and direction. But just consider a mo- 
ment! How could you — or could she — ever imagine that a 
man of the most stainless honor — un parfait lioiinUe Jiomme — 
like Edouard de Sercourt, would accept a bribe to change his 
religion, even such a bribe as the hand of Genevieve? No; 
you went to work entirely the wrong way. You ought to 
have known that, with such a man, self-interest would do 
nothing, while gratitude and affection might accomplish all. 
Lastly, there came upon him this terrible affliction,, for which, 
I think, the way he has been treated among you may partly be 
thanked. Since then I have watched him day by day and hour 
by hour, and all I can say is this — if ever yet a man endured a 
bitter, crushing sorrow with grand, silent, and heroic patience 
most edifying to witness, that man is Edouard de Sercourt. 

“ I know that,^^ said mademoiselle; “ it only makes things 
harder. 

“ Not at all, my friend; it makes things much easier. Jt 
shows that God is already vouchsafing His grace to him. Now 
the question is, shall we help the good work, or shall we do all 
in our power to destroy it? Shall we drive him into seeking 
consolation among the teachers of heresy — such as that of 
Monsieur Claude, whom he vaunts to me as a greater preacher 
than Monsieur de Condom; the only senseless thing 1 have 
ever heard him say? Or shall we place by his side a teacher 
of the true faith, loving, wise,, and earnest, who will never 
rest until they kneel together at the same holy shrine? To 
put the matter in a nutshell — refuse him Genevieve, and in 
all probability he will live and die a Protestant — give him 
Genevieve, and I pledge you my word they will be of one faith 
in a year.^^ 

The last words might almost have been heard by the two 
who came in just then through the glass door: Genevieve 
leaning upon Edouard, and at the same time half unconsciously 
guiding his steps — a prefiguring perhaps of what life would be 
for both of them. They went up straight to the couch upon 
which mademoiselle was seated; Edouard having probably 
misinterpreted some sign from Genevieve so far as to suppose 
she was alone. He said, with the lowest and courtliest of 
bows, “ Mademoiselle, I have the honor to present to you my 
fiancee. Most heartily do she and I unite in craving the for- 
giveness of the dearest, best, and truest friend she has ever 
had, because we have been betrayed by circumstances into an 
understanding with each other, without first assuring ourselves 
of the approbation and the blessing which we now earnestly 
implore, and shall value beyond all price. 


GENTCVIEVE. 


193 


Mademoiselle rose from her seat, and her pale and noble 
face flushed with a mingling of many feelings, as she answer- 
ed, “ Who am I, to approve or to condemn, to bless, or to 
withhold blessing? I have not seen my own way so clearly 
that 1 can pretend to guide the steps of others. As far as my 
dim sight can reach, I account you, Monsieur de Sercourt, 
free from blame; but I think that Genevieve — my child Gene- 
vieve — has scarce been true to her convictions. Still, I accuse 
no one. Let Him who knows all judge all. We, who know 
so little, ought to pray for, rather than to condemn, each 
other. 

There was a pause, broken by the entrance of the Due de 
Eoannez, to whom she said, ‘‘ Have the goodness my brother, 
to excuse me to any guests who may arrive after this. 1 shall 
receive no more to-day. W'ill you also forgive me, dear Mar- 
guerite, if 1 say farewell — or rather au revoir f Monsieur de 
Sercourt, au revoir,” She turned to go; and Genevieve, after 
a brief word of farewell, followed her to her private room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE EPILOGUE. 

The old home of the Monteres family, Cleudon, on the 
Seine, was destined to a bright renewal of its best and happiest 
days. The quaint stone staircase leading down to the river 
had been repaired and cleansed, and the parterre glowed once 
more with carefully tended flowers, which were only less sweet 
and lovely than the youthful chdtelaine who moved among 
them with light footsteps, gathering their choicest blooms to 
decorate the halls, under her careful superintendence no longer 
bare and gloomy, but the very ideal of a country home. 

Every part of the chateau, with all its stables, outhouses, 
and other dependencies, had now an air of use and occupation. 
Servants moved busily to and fro; country people brought 
their produce to sell; or, quite as often, came for help in 
need, or counsel in perplexity. Visitors from far and near, 
for business or for friendship, filled the hospitable halls; for 
Cleudon was now the residence of the great Huguenot chief, 
M. de Sercourt, who, his physical infirmity notwithstanding, 
was a power for good in the neighborhood and the province, 
and even throughout the country. 

Between two and three years had passed away since the 
events last recorded. Early in the year 1667 Mile, de Roannez 
rewarded at last the long constancy of the Due de la Feuillade. 
A more auspicious wedding was delayed for this one; since 


Genevieve entreated Edouard to allow her to assist her be- 
loved mademoiselle in the necessary preparations, and to 
attend her. to the altar. During this interval, the Due de 
Graff ont made suitable provision for the future of his nephew 
and adopted son. It was a sore disappointhient to the kind- 
hearted old man that Edouard^s blindness must exclude him 
from a public career; but he did all in his power to compen- 
sate him for the loss. He settled upon him the customary 
portion of a younger son of the House of Graff ont, and offered 
moreover, since he preferred a country life, to buy him an 
estate in any part of the country he might choose, As the old 
chateau where he spent his childhood happened to be then in 
the market, the present occupiers wishing to reside in Paris, 
he made choice of it, knowing how greatly it would delight 
Genevieve to return there. 

,By this time the influence Pelisson was able to exercise in 
high quarters (even more, it must be said, than the intrinsic 
justice of the cause) had produced a reversal of the verdict 
against M. Monteres which had terminated, or seemed to 
terminate, the famous lawsuit. Genevieve, when all was 
settled, could scarcely be called a great heiress, so much of 
the old farmer-generaPs wealth had melted away in the 
crucible of law. Still, a handsome portion remained to her; 
and she also acquired a degree of distinction and notoriety 
which had the effect of making M. de Sercourk’s marriage 
appear, in the eyes of society, not at all a mesalliance, but, on 
the contrary, “ quite a romantic affair, and so interesting.'’^ 

Not that either cared greatly for the verdict of society. 
Supremely happy in each other, they were happy also in the 
life that lay before them. As weeks and months passed by, 
that life grew full and rich, and powerful for good, beyond 
even their most sanguine anticipations. A wise and benevo- 
lent cTidtelaine, Genevieve ruled her miniature kingdom like 
a little queen; but especially did she love to serve her Lord in 
His poor, and to minister to them as a mother trained in the 
best traditions of Port Royal had taught her to do. Between 
Edouard and Genevieve the bond was perfect. They were 
how one in every sense, the prophecy of Mile, de Chevres that 
they would soon come to worship together having been ful- 
filled in a sense different from what she intended. They were 
now accustomed to kneel side by side in the modest little 
chapel which Edouard had obtained (with much difficulty) 
special permission to erect in his own grounds. Hitherto the 
“ apostasy of Genevieve had not brought upon them any 
persecution. Both were well aware, however, that she ran 


GEITEVIEVE. 


105 


serious risks; she might even be consigned by a lettre dc cachet* 
to arbitrary imprisonment. But both were courageous and 
hopeful, willing to go forward bravely in the path of duty, 
and to trust God with the issue. 

In spite of his infirmity, life to Edouard was full of keen 
interest, and of that noble kind of enjoyment which springs 
from the full exercise of all the faculties. He had to watch 
over the concerns of the faithful throughout the country; to 
save them, when he could, from oppression, and to strengthen 
them in the truth. His hand and his home were ever open to 
his own people; through his liberality temples wore supported, 
indigent pastors were succored, widows and orphans provided 
for, and schools maintained for Protestant children. He was 
in constant correspondence with the Marquis de Ruvigny, the 
accredited agent of the Protestants at the Court; and was, in 
fact, engaged with him in a brave and constant struggle 
against those forces of injustice and oppression which were 
already being marshaled,- and which were to be let loose 
against them with such terrible ferocity less than twenty years 
afterward, at the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. 

But as yet there were only distant mutterings of the coming 
storm; in and around the Chateau of Cleudon all was calm 
and peaceful. New joy was there too; for Genevieve was the 
happy mother of a beautiful little girl. When the J une roses of 
1669 began to bloom, little Charlotte could already lisp her 
father’s name, and run to his arms across the floor of polished 
oak. 

Early one morning Genevieve came in, happy and smiling, 
to the light, airy little room which was called the cabinet of 
monsieur. It deserved its name; for a large writing-table, 
crowded with papers, occupied the center, while around the 
wall were spacious presses, one or two containing books, the 
others fllled with pamphlets an^ legal documents, or with 
correspondence, carefully arranged and ticketed. Genevieve 
wore a fresh white flowing robe, with one rosebud fastened at 
the throat; and her simple cornette allowed the luxuriant 
golden hair to escape beneath it. Seeing no one in the room, 
she put in order one or two small matters, placed a chair for 
Edouard at the table, and rang the bell. A servant quickly 
appeared, to whom she gave the message: “ If Monsieur 
Alfort is ready, request him to come here.’’ M. Alfort, now 
no longer the confldential valet, but the trusted private 
secretary, entered the room with scarce a moment’s delay. 
He wore a perruque and a decorous suit of black, and bowing 


196 


GENEVIEVE. 


'‘low to his mistress, advanced, and laid upon the table a great 
armful of letters and small parcels. 

Genevieve greeted him with much kindness, and inquired 
about the details of his journey from Paris, whence he had re- 
turned the preceding night, after all the houBehold had retired 
to rest. She then asked eagerly for news of her friends in the 
city; and was told that M. le Due de Graff ont and M. and, 
Mme. de Ohevres were in good health, and all delighted with 
the little son and heir, who was becoming every day more 
handsome and more charming. The birth of this child had 
not given the less satisfaction to Edouard and Genevieve be- 
cause it barred their own chance of succession to the inher- 
itance of the House of Graff ont. 

“ Monsieur le Due has sent madame a few lines in his own 
hand, and a packet,’^ said Henri, producing a letter and a 
small parcel. “ He bade me be careful of it, since it con- 
tained jewelry, and also portraits by Monsieur Petitot. 

Genevieve, with feminine curiosity, began to break the seals, 
bufc paused as she was doing so to ask, “ How is Madame la 
Duchesse de la Peuillade?^^ 

“ Indeed, madame, I can not say aught but that she looks 
worn and ill. She has never recovered the sudden death of 
the poor little one. Ah, madame, it was so sad! The poor 
babe seemed quite well one moment,- and was gone the next. 
True, he did not suffer; but, then, madame, he never received 
Holy Baptism. That was the terrible thing, 

“ For all that, the Good Shepherd gathers the lambs in His 
arms,^'’ said Genevieve, looking up with wet eyelashes. 

“ Ah, would that madame had but been there to comfort 
the poor lady ! That was what her demoiselle was saying, to 
me. She says that Madame la Duchesse never complains, and 
she has scarcely ever seen her weep. She is kind and good to 
every one, and they all love her well; but she is too still — too 
calm. But here is a letter, and a book which she has sent to 

* A famous enamel painter of the day, a Huguenot. 

f The Duchesse de la Feuillade became the mother of four children, 
of whom the first died unbaptized, the second was deformed, the third, 
a girl, was a dwarf, and died at the age of nineteen; the fourth died in 
1725, leaving no issue. She herself died of cancer in 1683. M. Cousin 
says, perhaps too harshly, that, “ divided within herself by. this terrible 
combat ” — between the counsels of her instructors and the claims of 
nature and society — “ she died miserably, charged with the anathemas 
of Port Royal, and unhappy and despairing because she had been a 
submissive daughter and a blameless wife,” But whatever clouds may 
have darkened her last days, we may be sure there was light beyond 
them, even the everlasting Light. 


GENETIETE. 


197 


madame. I believe it is the same which monsieur charged 
me to purchase for him, if it was published yet; still, I did 
not like to take the res;gonsibility of neglecting the commission 
of monsieur. ' 

“ You did quite right. Monsieur Alfort. We shall have no 
difficulty in finding a use for two copies of the ‘ Pensees de 
Pascal,^ said Genevieve, who easily guessed the contents of 
the parcel. 

“ I have the honor also to bring letters to madame from 
Monsieur and Madame de Viremont,'’’ resumed Henri. “ They 
were overjoyed at madame ’s kind remembrance of them, and 
her present for the bride. She is a beautiful young lady, 
madame; and Monsieur de Viremont was very fortunate to get 
her. He still remains, however, attached to the household of 
Monsieur de Roannez, from whom also 1 have letters for mon- 
sieur. He has written, I believe, about the affairs of Port 
Royal, which have taken a very favorable turn, as madame is 
already aware. 

Yes; but we are both longing to hear all the particulars. 
Have you any more letters for me?^^ 

Yes, madame; one from the nurse, Ma^amselle Euphemie 
Perdreux, whom I found out through the ' good offices of 
Madame de Ohevres. The kind soul has nearly worn herself 
out with hard work, for she never spared herself, and she has 
had more than one serious illness. 1 could see that the good- 
ness of madame in asking her to come here and rest touched 
her deeply. 

“If we can persuade her to it, she shall remain here for the 
rest of her days,"*^ said Genevieve. When she has rested 
enough we can find occupation for her here, especially in at- 
tending upon the sick poor of her own faith. 

“ And also, that reminds me, madame, resumed Henri, 
“ that 1 met in Paris the widow of poor Monsieur le Pasteur 
Vidon, who seemed to be in great distress. I ventured to give 
her a few crowns on the account of monsieur, knowing that 
such would be his pleasure; and I told her monsieur would 
consider her case. Being one of our own, I knew 1 might go 
so far.^^ 

“ You were quite right. Monsieur Alfort,’^ said Genevieve, 
unable to repress a smile at Henries instinctive use of the ex- 
pression “ our own,’"’ though he was still nominally a Catholic. 
“ But here comes monsieur to speak for himself. 

Edouard entered the room with a free and fearless step 
which gave no hint of his blindness. His little girl, who 
idolized “ papa,^^ as little girls are wont to do, was perched 


198 


GENEVIEVE. 


on his shoulder, her tiny fingers playing with his thick chest- 
nut hair — for since coming to the country he had discarded 
the yerruque, saying he preferred to follow the fashion set by 
the great Conde. His handsome sunburned face glowed with 
health and cheerfulness as he advanced into ^the room, every 
inch of which he of course knew well. 

“ Is it you, Genevieve he asked, raising his voice, as its 
sound alone would tell him if any one were there. 

“ 1 am here, mon ami ” said Genevieve. “ In fact your 
two secretaries have been waiting your pleasure. You are late 
this morning. 

‘‘ It is the fault of this imperious young lady, who is learn- 
ing betimes to use the privileges of her sex,^^ said Edouard, as 
he seated the child on the table, and took the chair Genevieve 
had placed for him. “ Mademoiselle heard my step as I was 
passing the nursery, and called for me, and then I must needs 
take her a walk, or, to speak more accurately, a ride. Henri, 
my boy, I salute thee heartily. Welcome back. What news 
hast thou brought 

“ At the service of monsieur. I think the best news I have 
brought is that which concerns Port Royal. Shall I tell mon- 
sieur about that?'’^ 

“ There is only one thing I would rather hear of — the wel- 
fare of my uncle and cousins. 

Henri assured him on this point, and then resumed. 
“ Monsieur has heard of the Papal Brief. 

“Yes, that news has reached us here. . ‘ The Pacification 
of Pope Clement IX. ^ will do more honor to the papal chair 
than many a more pretentious work. ” 

“ The Duchesse de Longueville was the instrument in the 
good work,'’^ resumed Henri. “ She never intermitted her 
efforts in the cause of peace; and at last a compromise was 
agreed upon by the chiefs of the Jansenist party, which she 
forwarded to the pope with a letter of her own. I am no the- 
ologian, as you are aware, monsieur, but I believe the basis of 
the compromise was full submission to his holiness in matters 
of faith, and respectful silence about matters of fact. 

“ That is to say, where they can not prove the pope to be 
wrong, they will swear he is right; where they can and do 
prove him to be wrong, they will hold their peace. Good!"’ 
said Edouard, laughing. 

“ Now, Edouard, you are hard on them,” Genevieve inter- 
posed. 

“God forbid! I honor them sincerely, as His saints, and 
the excellent of the earth. But since they will not outrage 


aEKEVIEVE. 


199 


thfeir consciences, being good men and women, they are con- 
strained by their system to outrage their common sense. 
Well, Henri ' 

‘‘ There is great joy everywhere; monsieur would be touched 
to the heart to see it. Monsieur de Sacy and Monsieur Fontaine 
have been released from the Bastille; Monsieur Arnauld has 
come forth from his hiding-place, and has actually been pre- 
sented^ to the king. The holy nuns who have been imprisoned 
in various convents throughout the country have been allowed 
to return in joy and peace to their beloved Port Eoyal des 
Champs. The recluses are returning too, and are already be- 
ginning to rebuild their cottages, which were falling into 
decay. The common people everywhere, and the poor, to 
whom they ministered with such true devotion, crowd around 
them with tears and blessings; thanking God, who has turned 
the captivity of His saints, and filled their mouths with 
laughter and their tongues with singing. 

“ In their joy we have part also, with all true followers of 
our common Lord,^^ said Edouard, heartily. 

“ How glad Madame de la Feuillade musif be of all this!^^ 
Genevieve remarked. 

“ Glad, madame? Well, no doubt she is thankful for it. 
But if 1 may say so much of a great lady, and one moreover 
as good as she is great, I think there is but little gladness in 
the life of Madame de la Feuillade. Those whom she loves 
best and honors most — 1 mean, those of Port Eoyal — can not 
pardon what they style^her ‘ fall,^ and look upon her as an 
apostate, who has returned to the world. yNevertheless, she is 
not of the world, and she never will be.'’^ 

There was a pause, after which Heuri resunied, “ Some 
there are, and those amonglthe best and holiest, who have not 
lived to share this joy and triumph. Monsieur Singlin, for so 
many years the spiritual director of Port Eoyal, is one of 
these. It is well with him, and with the others who have 
entered into rest. 

‘‘ And,^^ said Genevieve, “ we may surely believe that in their 
place within the veil they share the joy of their brethren and 
sisters here. I like to think that my dear mother shares it 
also. Port Eoyal was her Zion, the joy of the whole earth to 
her, the sanctuary of her God. I think its oppression and 
desolation helped to break her heart. No, no, my little one; 
these pictures are not meant for thee to play with. These 
keys of mammals will db quite as well, will they not?^^ 

But little Charlotte was of another opinion. She was loath 
to surrender the exquisite miniatures of M. and Mme. de 


200 


OENEVIEVE. 


Chevres and their little boy, which, painted in enamel and 
set with pearls, were the Due de Graff out’s gift to Genevieve. 
And she expressed her sentiments in a decided, unmistakable 
wail. I 

“ Let me take the little one to her nurse,’’ volunteered 
Henri, stretching out his arms to the child. He knew that he 
stood high in ^le favor of the rather capricious and exacting 
young lady, and he was very proud of the fact. She ^yas 
easily induced to let him take her in his arms, and he carried 
her off in triumph. Meanwhile, Genevieve cast a hasty glance 
over one or two of her letters.’ ‘‘Just listen to this, Edouard,” 
she said, half laughing. “Madame de Chevres sui^poses we 
have turned by this time into pecores provinciales — that is to 
say, rustics buried in the country and lost to society, and to 
all the movements of the age, its thought, and its progress. ” 

“ Is that true, Genevieve?” 

“ Ear otherwise,” she returned, proudly. “ I know of no 
one so thoroughly abreast of all that is really good in the age, 
of all that is noble in the present or hopeful for the future, as 
thou art, my husband.” 

“ That is our right, as Protestants,” said Edouard; “ the 
future is with us. ” 

“ Madame de Chevres scolds me soundly for my perversion 
to Protestantism; my apostasy^ as she calls it,” resumed 
Genevieve. “ But she is always generous, and writes no word 
that could really give pain. Still, she says, with a little 
malice ” (the French word, not the English, be it observed), 
“ My dear, you ought at least to have considered the feelings 
of that poor Madame de la Feuillade, who is so cruelly attacked 
by both sides at once. Do you know what the Jansenists are 
saying? ‘ Ah this sad fall! See the result of paltering with 
conscience, and retracting a solemn vow. She herself has re- 
turned to the world, and her favorite demoiselle has actually — 
will you believe it? — become a Protestant!’ While, as for the 
other side, the enemies of Port Eoyal, it is only too easy for 
them to point a moral. Have they not always been telling us 
that Jansenism is Protestantism in disguise, and Port Royal a 
station on the road to Geneva?” 

“ Not so far wrong there, perhaps,” said Edouard. “ We, 
at all events, glory in acknowledging the saints of Port Royal 
as our bfeathren in the faith. And we can afford to forgive 
them their refusal to grasp the extended hand of fellowship, 
for we know they will take it gladly by and by, when we and 
they meet together at the marriage supper of the Lamb.” 

“And then,” said Genevieve, softly, “ He will wipe away 


GENEVIEVE. 


201 


the tears from all faces, even from that of my loved and 
honored friend, who trained me for thee, Edouard. I fear 
the cloud will never pass altogether from her life here. When 
I thank God for the abundant joys of my own happy lot, I 
can not keep the tears from starting at the thought that her 
home will never be like ours — never on earth. 

“Nay, why say that, my Genevieve? She is blameless 
wife, she may yet be a happy mother. She is trying to do her 
duty, and peace comes to us in the path of duty. 

“ That 1 doubt not. But may we not, for those we love, 
be permitted to desire joy as well as peace, happiness as well 
as blessedness?^^ 

“Certainly, m^amie. But for those we love, as for our- 
selves, we must learn to wait. I think thou hast learned it 
now for me; learn it also for the friend of thy girlhood. She 
too will see one day much that is hidden from her now; and I 
think that in the radiance of that light, Christ’s own voice 
will say to her, ‘ Said 1 not unto thee, that if thou wouldest 
believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?’ But has she 
not sent thee a gift?” 

“Yes, ‘ Les Pens^es de Pascal;’ — but no — really after all 
it is thy name, not mine, which she has written in the dainty 
little volume, so exquisite in type and binding: ‘ To Monsieur 
de Sercourt, in token of the sincere and lively friendship of 
Charlotte Gouffier de la Feuillade. ’ She used to say to me 
that you entered into the spirit of Monsieur Pascal’s great 
work as deeply as any one she knew, Edouard. ”* 

“ Because I could never look upon it as a work, but only as 
the priceless, though formless, material gathered for a work 
which he was not to execute. I think still, as I thought then, 
that these fragments — these gems of thought, pure and 
lustrous, cut and polished by the master’s hand— are for the 
Church of God a treasure more precious than would have been 
the completed work. Monsieur Pascal knew the heart of God, 
and he knew the soul of man. Strong in the might of holi- 
ness, his eagle eye pierced the heights; keen with the insight 
of genius, his piercing glance explored the depths. But 
though he knew God and man, he knew little of the world, 
of literature, of history. Supreme in the province of internal 
evidence, with- the external evidences of our faith he would 
not, I think, have been competent to deal. Moreover, he was 
tied and bound by a system which, upon certain points, 

* The first edition of the “ Pensees de Pascal,” which was prepared 
by his friends of Port Royal, appeared in 1669. 


GENEVIEVE. 


20 ^^ 

fatally confused his perceptions of truth and falsehood. In 
that mind, otherwise so profound and so clear, the miracle of 
the Holy Thorn took a place beside the miracles of our Lord 
and of His Apostles. For those who, with hearts unopened to 
the higher and deeper testimonies for Christ, still require to 
be led to believe on Him ‘ for the very work^s sake. I do not 
think your great Pascal the best of teachers, Genevieve. But 
he is priceless and peerless for those whose eyes are anointed 
to see the best proofs of Christianity in Christ Himself, and 
the greatest of miracles in that unending one which is renewed 
from age to age in the hearts of all who love Him— His power 
to fulfill their deepest needs and to satisfy their inmost 
longings. 

“ And for those whose peeds are fulfilled, whose longings 
are satisfied, there are also precious lessons. Listen to this, 
Edouard. I have just opened at it, near the end of the book; 
‘ Do little things as if they were great, because of the majesty 
of our Lord Jesus Christ, who dwells and lives in thee; and 
do great things as if they were little and easy, because of His 
omnipotence.'’ I can not help thinking, Edouard, that he 
whose hand penned those words did a little thing as if it were 
a great one, when he stooped to save a poor forsaken child at 
the door of St. Sulpice.’^ 

“ But I think that was a great thing; at least, it was great 
for me. Those are grand words, Genevieve. Shall we agree, 
thou and I, to make them henceforward the rule of our lives— 
of our life, I should say, seeing that we two are one?^^ 


THE END. 


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DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 




73 In Eeih’ und Glied v, F. Spiel- 

hagen. ZweiteHalfte 20 

74 Geheimnisse einer kleinen 

Stadt von A. von Winterfeld 10 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Erste Halfte.. 20 
75 Das Landhaus am Rhein von 


B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte 20 

76 Clara Vere von Friedrich Spiel- 

hagen 10 

77 Die Frau Biirgermeisterin von 

G. Ebers 20 

78 Aus eigener Kraft von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht von K. 

Franzos 20 

80 Prinzessin Schnee von Marie 

Widdern 10 

81 Die zweite Frau von E. Marlitt 20 

82 Benvenuto von Fanny Lewald 10 


83 Pessiraisten von F. von Stengel 20 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 


delstein 10 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert von B. 

Young 20 

86 Thiiringer Erzahlungen von E.^ 

Marlitt 10 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella von A. 

Dom 20 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Mann 

V. Hans Wachenhusen 10 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjahrigen Krieg v. E. 

A. Kdnig 20 

90 Das Fraulein von St. Ama- 

ranthe von R.^von Gottschall 10 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro v. 

A. Winterfeld 20 

92 Um ein Herz von E. Falk. 10 

93 Uarda von Georg Ebers 20 

94 In der zwdlften Stunde von 

Fried. Spielhagen und Ebbe 
und Fluth von M. Widdern... 10 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste Halfte. . 20 

95 Die von Hohenstein von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch v. Lucian 

Herbert 10 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths von Marlitt 20 

98 Helene von H. Wachenhusen 

und Dio Prinzessin von Por- 
tugal V. A. Meissner 10 

99 Aspasia von Robert Hammer- 

ling 20 

100 Ekkehard v. Victor v. Scheffel 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v. F.Daim. 

Erste HS-lfte 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v.F.Dahn. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

102 Spinoza von Berth. Auerbach. 20 

103 von der Erde zum Mond von. 

J. Verne 10 

104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen 

von G. Samarow 20 

106 Reise um den Mond von Julius 

Verne 10 


106 Fiirst und Musiker von Max 

Ring 20 

107 Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliflfe. Er- 

ster Band • - • 20 

107 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

Zweiter Band ..1 30 

107 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

Dritter Band 20 

108 Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 

der Erde von Julius Verne 10 

109 Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 

Kohn 10 

110 Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 

terfeld 20 

111 Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 

T. Marx 10 

112 Der Ulan von Joh. van Dewall 10 

113. Um hohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 
Halfte 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten V. B. Auerbach. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

115 Reise um die Erde von Julius 

Verne 10 

116 Casars Ende von S. J. R. 

(Schluss von 104> 20 

117 Auf Capri von Carl Detlef 10 

118 Severa von E. Hartner 20 

119 Ein Arzt der Seele von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

120 Die Livergnas von Hermann 

Willfried 10 

121 Zwanzigtausend Meilen un- 

term Meer von J. Verne 20 

122 Mutter und Sohn von August 

Godin 10 

123 Das Haus des Fabrikanten v. 

Samarow 20 

124 Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 

Schiicking 10 

125 Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen 

V. G. Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 

125 Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen 

V. G. Samarow. ZvreiteHalfte 20 

126 Porkeles und Porkelessa von 

J Scherr 10 

127 Ein Friedensstdrer von Victor 

Bliithgen und Der heimliche 
Gast von R. Byr 20 

128 Schdne Frauen v. R. Edmund 

Hahn 10 

129 Bakchen und Thyrsostrager 

von A. Niemann 20 

130 Getrennt. Roman von E.Polko 10 

131 Alte Ketteri. Roman von L. 

Schiicking 20 

132 Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 

Jensen 10 

133 Das Gold^des Orion von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin 10 

134 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 

row. Erste Halfte 20 

134 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 

row. Zweite Halfte 20 

135 Troubadour - Novellen von P. 

Heyse 10 


DIE DErTSCIIE LIBRARY. 


3 


136 Der Schwedeu-Schatz von H. 

Wachenhusen 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 

Arts und Das Bild des Kaisers 
vonWilh. Hauff 

138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. V. 

Winterfeld 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube von 

St'efanie Keyser 

140 Numa Roumestan v. Alphonse 

Daudet 

141 SpStsommer. Novelle von C. 

von Sydow nnd Engelid, No- 
velle V, Balduin Mollhausen 

142 Bartolomaus von Brusehaver 

u. Musma Cussalin. Novellen 
von L. Ziemssien 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Erste Haifte 

143 Ein gemeuchelier Dichter. Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . 

144 Ein Wort. Neuer Roman von 

G. Ebers 

145 Novellen von Paul Heyse 

146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 

ludan-Miiller 

147 Ihr einziger Bruder von W. 

Heimburg, 

148 Ophelia. Roman von H. von 

Lankenau 

149 Nemesis v. Helene v. Hiilsen 

150 Felicitas. Histor. Roman von 

F. Dahn 

151 Die Claudier. Roman v. Ernst 

Eckstein 

152 Eine Verlorene von Leopold 

Kompert 

153 Luginsland. Roman von Otto 

Roquette 

154 Im Banne der Musen von W. 

Heimburg 

155 Die Schwester v. L. Schiicking 

156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 

stScker 

157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M. 

Muller 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Erste HM,lfte 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Zweite Halfte 

159 Debora. Roman von W. Miiller 

160 Eine Mutter v. Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 

161 Friedhofsblume von W. von 

Hillern. 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe von K. 

Frenzel 

163 Gebannt u. erlost v. E. Werner 

164 Uhlenhans. Roman von Iried. 

Spielhagen 

165 Klytia. Roman von G. Taylor. 

166 Mayo. Erzahlung v. P. Liudau 

167 Die Herrin von Ibichstein von 

F. Henkel 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Erste Halfte 


168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

row. Zweite Halfte 20 

169 Serapis. Roman v. G. Ebers . 20 

170 Ein Gottesurtlieil. Roman von 

E. Werner 10 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer. Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 

V. Franzos 10 

174 Villa Schiinow. Roman v. W. 

Raabe 10 

175 Das Vermiichcniss v. Eckstein. 

Erste Halfte 20 

175 Das Vermachtniss v. Eckstein. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 

Lindau 10 

177 Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 10 

178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen von E. Marlitt 20 

179 Jetta. Von George Taylor 20 

180 Die Stieftochter. Von J. Smith 20 

181 An der Heilquelle. \4on Fried. 

Spielhageu 20 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

vonjokai 20 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 10 

184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

185 Ehre, Roman v O. Schubin... 20 

186 Violanta, Roman v. E. Eckstein 20 

187 Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 10 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Erste Halfte 20 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

189 Homo sum, Roman von Georg 

Ebers... 20 

190 Eine Aegy ptische Kbnigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 
Halfte 20 

190 Eine Aegy ptische Konigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Zweite 
Halfte ; 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Erste Halfte 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Zweite HSlfte 20 

192 Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Erste Halfte 20 

192 Die Nilbraut. von Georg Ebers. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

193 Die Andere, von W. Heimburg 20 

194 Ein armes Madchen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

195 Der Roman der Stiftsdame, von 

Paul Heyse 20 

196 Kloster “Wendhusen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. Erste HSlfte 20 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. ZweiteHalfte 20 

198 Frau Venus, von Karl Frenzel 26 


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sia PRICE. 

86 ®ie Mark of Cain. By Andrew 

Lan g 25 

87 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

Bradshaw 25 

38 At Bay. B” Mrs. Alexander 25 

89 Vice Versa By F. Anstey 25 

40 The Case of Reuben Malachi. By 

H. Sutherland Edwards 25 

41 The Mayor of Casterbridge. By 

Thomas Hardy 25 

42 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 25 

43 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 25 

44 King Arthur. By Miss Mulock. . 25 

45 Living or Dead. Hugh Conway 25 

46 A Wicked Girl. Mary Cecil Hay 25 

47 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Conway 25 


48 Beaton’s Bargain. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 25 

49 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 25 

50 The Secret of Her Life. By Ed- 

ward Jenkins 25 

51 The Haunted Chamber. By 

“The Duchess” 25 

52 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. First half 25 

62 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette 
Carey. Second half 25 

53 Maid, Wife, or Widow ? and 

Ralph Wilton’s Weird. By 
Mrs. Alexander 25 

54 A Woman’s Temptation. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

55 Once Again. Mrs. Forrester 25 

56 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 

Chance. Mrs. H.Lovett Cameron 25 
67 The Outsider. Hawley Smart. . 25 

58 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard 25 

59 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 25 

60 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 1st half 25 

60 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 2d half 25 

61 Hilary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 25 

62 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 1st half 25 

62 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. By 

Rosa N. Carey. 2d half 25 

63 Between Two Sins, and Wedded 

and Parted. By Charlotte M. 

64 A Bachelor’s Blunder. By W. 

E. Norris 25 

66 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou- 
chette Carey. Ist half 25 

65 Nellie’s Memories. Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 2d half 25 

66 Repented at Leisure. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 


67 Wooed and Married. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 1st half. . . 25 
67 Wooed and Married. By Rosa 
Nouchette Carey. 2d half... 25 
88 The Merry Men. By Robert 
Louis Stevenson 25 


NO. PRICE, 

69 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 2B 

70 Othmar. By“Ouida.” 1st half 25 

70 Othmar. By“Ouida.” 2d half ^ 

71 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By 

Rosa Nouchette Carey 25 

72 Sunshine and Roses. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 26 

73 For Lilias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. First half ^ 

73 For Liiias. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. Second half. - 25 

74 Les Mis6rables. By Victor 

Hugo. Parti 25 

74 Les Mis6rables. By Victor 
Hugo. Part 11 25 

74 Les Mis6rables. .By Victor 

Hugo. Part III 25 

75 One Thing Needful. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 25 

76 The Master Passion. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 25 

77 Marjorie. Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

78 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida” 25 

79 The Dark House. By George 

Manville Fenn 25 

80 The House on the Marsh. By 

Florence Warden 25 

81 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 25 

82 Why Not? By Florence Marryat 26 

83 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

That Hath Us in His Net.” 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 26 

84 The Professor. By Charlotte 

Bront6 25 

85 The Trumpet-Major. By Thomas 

Hardy 25 

86 The Dead Secret. Wilkie Collins ^ 

87 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand. By 

Florence Warden 25 

88 Springhaven. R. D. Blackmore. 

First half 25 

88 Springhaven. R. D. Blackmore. 

Second half 26 

89 A Vagrant Wife. By Florence 

Warden 25 

90 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 25 

91 At the World’s Mercy. By Flor- 

ence Warden 25 

92 Claribel’s Love Story ; or,LiOve’s 

Hidden Depths. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme 26 

93 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 26 

94 Court Royal. By S. Baring- 

Gould 26 

95 Faith and Unfaith. By “The 

Duchess” .‘ 25 

96 Cherry Ripe. By Helen B. 

Mathers 25 

97 Little Tu’penny. By S. Baring- 

Gould 26 

98 Cometh Up as a Flower. By 

Rhoda Broughton 25 

99 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 


tSE SEASIDE LIBRARY— 25-Cent Edition. 


8 


NO. PRIOH. 

100 Redeemed by Love. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

101 A Woman’s War. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

102 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

103 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

104 Sweet Cymbeline. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

105 The Belle of Lynn. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

106 Dawn. B 5 ’^ H. Rider Haggard . . 25 

107 The Tinted Venus. ByF.Anstey 25 

108 Addie’s Husband; or. Through 

Clouds to Sunshine 25 

109 The Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland 25 

110 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

Helen B. Mathers 25 

111 Phyllis. By *• The Duchess ”.. . 25 

112 Tinted Vapours. By J. Maclaren 

Cobban 25 

113 A Haunted Life. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

114 The Woodlanders. By Thomas 

Hardy 25 

115 Wee Wifie. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey 25 

116 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron 25 

117 Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. First half 25 

117 Sabina Zembra. By William 

Black. Second half 25 

118 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 25 

119 Good-bye, Sweetheart! By 

Rhoda Broughton 25 

120 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester — 25 

121 Rossmoyne. By “The Duchess” 25 

122 A Girl’s Heart 25 

123 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

Blankhampton. By John 
Strange Winter 25 

124 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 25 

125 King Solomon’s Wives. By 

Hyder Ragged 25 

126 He. By the author of “King 

Solomon’s Wives” 25 

127 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man. By Octave Feuillet 25 

128 Hilda. By Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

129 The Master of the Mine. By 

Robert Buchanan 25 

130 Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... 25 

131 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

By Robert Buchanan 25 

132 Mrs. Geoffrey. “ The Duchess ” 25 

133 June. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

134 In Durance Vile. By “ The 

Duchess ” 25 

135, Diana Carew. Mrs. Forrester. 25 

136 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

“The Duchess” 25 

137 My Lord and My Lady. By Mrs. 

Forrester 25 


PRICE. 


Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The 

Duchess” 25 

Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 25 

Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess” 25 

A Maiden All Forlorn. By “ The 

Duchess” 25 

The Mystery of Colde Fell; or. 
Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 25 

Borderland Jessie Fothergill 25 
A Prince of Darkness. By 

Florence Warden 25 

Roy and Viola. By Mrs. For- 
rcstor 25 

Doris. ^ “ The Duchess ” 25 

Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 25 
The Crime of Christmas Day. . . 25 
The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 25 

Robur ths Conqueror. By Jules 

Verne 25 

A Dark Marriage Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

Within an Inch of His Life. By 

Emile Gaboriau 25 

Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 25 

Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 25 

Her Second Love. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. First half 25 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. Second half 25 

On Her Wedding Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 

Haggard : 25 

The Duke’s Secret. By Char- 
lotte M Braeme 26 

Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 25 

The Shattered Idol. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 25 

A Modern Circe. By “ The Duch- 
ess ” 25 

Handy Andy. A Tale of Irish 

Life. By Samuel Lover 25 

The Earl’s Error. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

Scheherazade: A London 
Night’s Entertainment. By 

Florence Warden 25 

The Duchess. By “ The Duch- 
ess” 25 

Marvel. By “ The Duchess ”... 25 
Driver Dallas, and Houp>-La! 

By J. S. Winter 25 

Home Again. By George Mac- 
donald 25 

The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark 

Russell ; 25 

Faust. B.y Goethe 25 

The Three Guardsmen. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 25 


NO. 

138 

139 

140 

141 

142 

143 

144 

145 

146 

147 

148 

149 

150 

151 

152 

153 

154 

155 

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157 

158 

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